


Bacon and Pancakes

by BlueBerryOatmeal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Awkward Crush, Bro Scott, Depression, Derek Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury Recovery, It's Kind of a Funny Story inspired AU, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not so graphic blood, PTSD, Slow Build, Stiles Has Issues, Suicide Attempt, Trigger happy - Freeform, hospital au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBerryOatmeal/pseuds/BlueBerryOatmeal
Summary: Stiles blanched. He was visiting a psychiatric hospital?  'Thanks dad. Way to help your son not feel crazy.'All he did was have a few panic attacks and try to kill himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING - Some things in this story could be triggering and upsetting to some people.

Stiles took a long breath, trying to fill his lung but they shook from the effort and he ended up letting out breath. He was unable to take in enough air and he couldn't control that no matter how much he tried to gasp back. His breathing was restricted to light inefficient puffs of air that left him feeling light headed and dizzy. Knees drawn into his chest, Stiles trembled and hugged himself as if it would help keep him together. His fingers twisted and dug into his arms painfully. The thin fabric of his shirt didn't prevent his nail from biting into the fragile skin underneath.

After a few long while, his panic attack died down to a steady shake where he could manage to suck back a breath. His anxiety however did not.

Stiles stared straight ahead into dead space, ignoring how it dried out his eyes and left them stinging and red. The mess of his room, the tossed school bag on the floor, and the pile of old textbooks all went unnoticed in his blind haze. He choked on a mix of air and saliva, then coughed. It left his throat dry and hoarse.

There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out the world around him. It was so bad he couldn't hear much else over the hollow hum. Was there a lawnmower running in the neighbours yard? Did the front door just close? It didn't really matter.

Stiles pushed himself up from where he sat on the floor and finding a new seat on the edge of his mattress. He needed to grip the sheets to try and hold himself up. The hard flooring had numbed his legs and put his foot to sleep. The little sharp twinging pain felt oddly relaxing to him as he came out of his adrenaline rush. Stiles curled his toes and pressed them into the floor at a pressure that would normally hurt, but the sharp tingling just felt so good that he sighed with relief.

The nice little distraction didn't help for too long though. From his new place on the bed Stiles had a perfect view of the cause of his panic attack. It shouldn't have been anything other than a simple, plain white envelope. But there it was, mocking him with all it's perfect uncreased self. It remained sealed with the school's overly pretentious coat of arms sticker on its fold, like they were some kind of a big deal or something. The school he'd gone to barely qualified as a private school.

Stiles continued to stare at the plain white envelope for another minute. He didn't need to open it. He knew what was inside. It was just his report card from school, nothing he should be afraid of. Except he was, for good reason too. Stiles knew what his marks had been all year and he was less than proud.

It hadn't been a good school year to begin with but he had been getting by. Stiles had maintained a high gpa. But after a while, his anxiety and mild bouts of depression weren't interfering with his studying too badly. He didn't tell anybody. The insomnia didn't cause too much physical strain. He never took sick days. And if anyone ever asked why he was so tired and stressed, he'd lie. He'd been lying all year. It wasn't hard to lie. Lying to the few friends he had at school, to teachers, to his dad, always himself. Instead of facing the issue though, Stiles ignored everything and mastered the “I'm fine” smile. It looked good on him. It made him look happy.

But non of this was fine, it was far from fine. This was his final report card as a senior. High school _should_ be over for him now. He _should_ be excited. Stiles should be getting ready to wade through a sea of scholarships and offers from people wanting to pay him to study at their university or college.

His father made it perfectly clear that he expected Stiles to work hard this year. University was expensive and they needed something if he were to go, a grant, a scholarship, something to help pay for it.

Instead, sealed away in that stupidly pompous envelope was one unforgiving grade he couldn't ignore, one impossible stain on his otherwise shining gpa. And it was too late to change it.

His dad was going to get home from work just before dinner time. He'd sit down and ask to see Stiles' report card, a big expectant grin on his face. Stiles could see it now. Them sitting at the kitchen table, his dad too exciting to change out of his sheriff's uniform. His hand would be held out ready to take the envelope. Then he'd read it and Stiles would be the biggest disappointment to ever exist. His dad would see that big fat failing grade curtsy of advanced chemistry of all things.

Who cares about all the other A's littering the report card. That one grade was unforgivable.

Stiles could see the shame on his dad's face now, how his brow would bend and his eyes would look right through him...

Stiles ran his hands through his hair. Bits of gel product prevented him from easily combing his fingers through so he fisted at his hair and viciously tugging on the thick strands. His breathing came quicker, forcing its way out of his chest. His skin turned cold and clammy thinking about how he was going to have to retake the class. He'd loose out on any potential scholarship money. While all his so called friends were all off at college, wasting hundreds of thousands of dollars to sleep through class and get stoned, he'd be retaking high school chemistry. God, he was a pathetic failure. How was he going to explain this to his dad?

Stiles dropped his hands to the bed, scalp raw from being grated at by his short blunt nails. The pain felt nice though, soothing even. It usually did when he was so worked up. It left him floating and calm. The proof of that was littered over the skin of his inner thighs. Long thin scars that some how looked even more pale than his already white flesh. They were numerous and varied in age and size. A few were so faded and old that they could only be seen in certain light and only if you tried to find them.

A couple still remained, dating back to his mother's death and the start of his father's drinking problem. But many of those in particular were gone now, and what was left was easily hidden and forgotten.

It's what he needed now, not to forget but to feel. To feel the calming, warm embrace that kind of rush left him in.

Stiles dove for his bedside table and through out its contents. Under the small pile of cords in the drawer – phone charger, mp3 charger, flash drives, headphones – hidden away where hopefully no one would find, he grabbed the overly used and dulled out razor blade he'd been using for the past few months. Stiles had used many things for this type of stress relief in the past, pieced of wire, bent paperclip, scissors, but this was always the most effective, the quickest and sharpest. It only cost him a small amount of pain but he was granted an evening of rest.

He fumbled with his jeans, trying to get them off without undoing the button. It was a struggle but they were pushed down over his hips and along his legs until he was able to kick them to the floor. The crumpled fabric went ignored as he crawled up onto his knees with his legs spread wide for him to work.

Stiles took a moment and studied the current scratches and cuts he had. Some were scabbed over, trying to heal in between him nervously picking at the dried blood and skin. Others were months old but still looked noticeably red. There was no uniform method to his madness, a cut was just a cut. The scars branched out across the curve of his thighs in every which way like an explosion of fireworks.

Stiles paid the patterns no mind. He didn't care how they scattered and cracked. He didn't care how the scaring bumped up or left divots.

Stiles held his hand over the skin of his thigh holding it taut over the slim muscle. With a shaking hand a quick breath, the razor was placed along an old scar before being pulled back. The sharp metal tip cut through the old scar tissue with some resistance. The razor snagged and pulled on the skin leaving an uneven line of broken skin.

It was a sudden rush and drop of adrenaline. Head rolling back on his shoulders, Stiles bottomed out and groaned in satisfaction. The tension in his muscles quickly vanished and for a split second in time, he felt as though he were floating. The feeling was beautifully addictive in all its warm yet dangerous glory. The sting on his skin throbbed in the open air in all the best ways.

Blood didn't seep out quite as quickly like some other times he had done this. There were only beads of red rising to the surface, pooling withing the cut.

The blade was move over an inch, pressed into the skin harder and quickly pulled back to create another cut.

Stiles felt light headed. The migraine he'd been dealing with the passed three days seemed to magically disappear. He smiled a little bit, closing his eyes to let the euphoric weightlessness take hold of his body. He all but collapsed back on the bed. This was the only time he felt alright. In those few breathes before the blood where it was just the burning sensation on his skin and the rush in his veins.

His body gently shook. A cold chill running over the now heated skin of his thigh. Stiles finally opened his eyes and looked down at what he'd done. The two long lines on his leg weren't deep, not life threatening, but they were turning an angry red and one was starting to leak blood. It was sticky on his finger tips when he touched it. It smeared and stained him. Stiles wiped his hand off on his boxers for now, deciding to clean up later.

Physical and emotional energy now at rock bottom, Stiles looked around at his messy room. It was a wreck. His dad had been telling him for days to clean it up but he just couldn't find the motivation. He felt like he should clean it all up. Then again, he didn't see the point to it. His room would just get messy again. Like a moment of clarity, Stiles let out a silly little laugh. It was all pointless. He understood that now. His room, his grades, his future, all of it was meaningless crap.

The laugh turned into a pitiful sob. Stiles' arms fell limp at his sides.

He couldn't be a failure to his father any more if he weren't around to cause trouble. It all sounded so obvious when he thought about it like that. You can't disappoint someone if you're not around. You can't fail. You can't upset anyone. Stiles pushed himself back into his pillows and rummaged around for his worn but comfortable pajama pants that he tucked under the covers when making his bed. They were a soft material for the hot summer weather, light blue with white-grey plaid. He slipped them on and pulled them up over his hips. The blood on his thigh which still trickled over his leg soaked into the fabric to form large red-brown stains. But non of that mattered to him anymore. He didn't really have to think about any of it.

He got comfortable sitting with his back nestled into the pillows, kneels bent and drawn up. It helped cradled his arm in his lap. He'd never done this before, obviously, but it was simple enough in theory. How hard could it be? People did it all the time. With the razor held firmly between his fingers he taps it against his left wrist where he knew the artery would be. Stiles wondered how deep he'd have to cut to nick the artery? How long it'd take to bleed out? As long as it got the job done, he didn't exactly care. Maybe he'd be able to take a nap or something and die in his sleep peacefully.

Stiles lightly bit down onto his lower lip as the metal pressed and dragged over his wrist. He twitched. It hurt worse than his thighs ever did. The cut was deeper, much slower, and he trembled in protest against the sharp edge carving into his arm. The pain was so bad his head spun and his once firm hand dropped the razor into his lap.

He looked down at his shaking arm. The cut wasn't clean or straight. It was more jagged and messier than anything. It looked ugly and rippled. Then there was the blood. His stomach turned at the sight of it. There was more than he'd ever gotten from a simple cut before. It was thicker and dark, rising to the surface before rolling over the curve of his arm in heavy drops. It dripped. Red leaked onto his shirt and on the waistband of his pants. The sight made him feel sick to his stomach.

Before he could even second guess his life choices up to this point he felt his world go sideways. Black speckled dotted his vision. Stiles moved the best he could, eyes rolling to the side. He lay half cushioned by his pillow and half off the bed in an undignified heap.

Stiles closed his eyes and prayed for it all to stop. He didn't know what 'it' was in that very moment, life, the pain, the constant sense of failure and doubt; whatever it was, he didn't want it anymore.

Right before he passed out from the nausea, Stiles barely heard the knock on his bedroom door and the creak of the hinges. He heard his name being yelled. Then everything was peaceful and silent.

 

.

 

Stiles wouldn't ever remember the part where he blacked out. However, the image of waking up to his dad and three strangers standing over him would be permanently stamped into his memory. They were standing in his bedroom, looking down at him with hard to read expressions. It was kind of awkward and embarrassing Stiles felt in his moments of confusion. He blinked, trying to take in the situation and why he was being watched so closely.

He moved a little, groaning from stiffness and some slight pain. His bare knees rubbed together which was weird because he definitely put jeans on that morning. It finally dawned on him that he was on his back, laying on his bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers.

 _'Oh, fuck... kill me now,'_ he thought with a breathless, cracked groan. At least now he knew for sure that a person couldn't actually die of embarrassments or else he'd be greeting death right that second.

“Stiles. Stiles, can you hear me?” The voice was soft but serious, assertive in trying to get his attention. It was coming from one of the men standing over him. The strangers were all dressed in the same black uniforms that looked familiar, probably because they were paramedics and Stiles often saw them at the police station when he'd go to see his dad. He blinked and squinted, recognising the patch on their shirts as just that.

Stiles made a small noise to show that he heard the guy but chose to stay quiet otherwise. He looked between them with wide and honestly scared eyes. A large part of him was expecting them to start yelling at him for what he'd done, or tried to do. Or did not do. Stiles wanted to roll over and pathetically cry. He'd failed at dying of all things.

Now, he was going to be in so much trouble. It was going to get around town. Everyone was going to judge him for this, and his dad. They would blame his dad for it.

A soothing hand came down to grip his shoulder. It was strong and squeezed with a practised pressure. The thumb rubbed at his collar through his shirt drawing Stiles' attention back out of his thoughts. His breathing was still uneven, feeling on the edge of another break down, but he wasn't tumbling out of control just yet.

John leaned down over the edge of the bed to look at his boy. He didn't look angry, but worried and hurt. His eyes were rimmed with red like he'd been hysterically crying.

Stiles' gut turned from guilt and humiliation. Something he had felt so sure of now was the stupidest thing he could ever do. He knew he shouldn't have done any of it and that he should, in general, know better. However, he still thought and wished that it worked. At least then he wouldn't have to live through this part too, let alone whatever repercussions were to follow.

“Stiles, say something. Please.” John urged in a broken tone. It cut him deeper than the razor ever could. He couldn't take his dad crying or being hurt.

Stiles blinked slowly and wet his dry lips. After a long pause spent trying to think of what to say, he settled on, “Dad...” The simple acknowledgement was enough to calm his father down to the point where he sighed from relief. It was a little comfort to Stiles as well, who felt better after saying that one word.

The hand remained on Stiles' shoulder though as he turned to speak with the paramedics. Their conversation went in one ear and out the other unfortunately. Stiles found himself otherwise distracted by his new feelings of regret and shame. He wanted to roll over and turn away but he was technically being held down in place and he didn't want to draw attention to himself by moving. So, he did what he could and turned his head to the side to stare at the far wall of his bedroom. He wanted to crawl into a dark corner and puke his guts up due to guilt.

The way his leg stretched out with a cramp, the tingle of his foot, the burning on his thigh which had been tightly bandaged, it was an unhappy reminder of what he did to cause all this. He couldn't throw on a pair of jeans and make all his problems disappear this time.

From the way he tilted his head he could now see down to his left arm. There was a large, thick white bandaged taped securely around his wrist. It was a glaringly bright reminder as well, standing out against his dark navy bed sheets so unfairly like it was screaming at him to look. And no, no he didn't want to. He didn't like seeing how blood had soaked into the bandage in places for him to see the evidence of what lay underneath.

He hadn't been paying attention until now but the conversation around him grew louder, more serious, like an argument, and he couldn't ignore that. Stiles stayed as still as possible, not wanting it turned on him. Because, you know, t-rex rules, right...

“John, I'm serious-”

“So, am I!”

“This isn't about you. This is about him getting the help he needs.”

“He's fine!”

“No, I don't think he is.”

And the award for the smartest person in the room goes to... Stiles turned to side eye the paramedic talking to his father. He looked the most concerned out of everyone in the room, either from experience or some kind of understanding of Stiles' position. Of course his dad would be arguing against it too. There was something about Stiles' family life, ever since his mom died, all they seemed to do was sweep their problems under a rug and pretend like they didn't exist. They didn't talk about how they felt or about what bothered them. Instead, his dad drank while he acted like a well adjusted son.

They didn't acknowledge anything other than their happy outer shell of a life. However, this was going to be hard to push aside and ignore.

“He's a minor for the next few months, so this is your call for now... but I think it'd be the best for him. I've seen these things happen before and I know it won't just go away on its own. And next time we all might be too late.” The paramedic sounded actually angry now. He was standing up for Stiles' best interests and it was kind of nice for once. It was real. There was concern over his health and sanity. Stiles didn't know his name but for the following minutes after hearing him say it, he was so taken aback that he wanted to jump up off the bed and thank him with a hug.

John continued to grumble because he didn't like being told how to raise and care for his own son, claiming there wouldn't be a 'next time' because they were fine.

The argument died there and Stiles was left to watch the paramedics gather their things and quietly discuss home care for him over the next few days with his dad. John took his hand away to lead them into the hall. The door was left open a crack, letting in the hushed voices of the group. Stiles looked towards the door, listening in.

“The cut was shallow enough, non-life threatening, but it's a huge cry for help judging from the number of scars on his legs. Keep an eye on his behaviour for the next little while. You have the number to call in case things get worse or if he starts to act withdrawn.”

“It's not going to happen-”

“I'd love to agree with you but I can't. He needs proper help. So, please, take this seriously.”

There was a long silence. “I will. I'll consider it...” John offered.

“I don't want a repeat of today, John. I know you don't either.”

Stiles rolled over onto his good arm, tucking it up under his pillow. He'd like them all to shut up now. The way they were talking about him, even if out of concern, made him feel like some kind of basket case. Which he wasn't, he didn't think so. He was just... depressed. Desperate. Anxious. If he were being honest – suicidal.

Despite the guilt and the worry, even after seeing the look on his father's face, and knowing he shouldn't have done it. Stiles still wished he were laying dead in his bed at that very moment. He wanted so badly to be gone, for his feelings to go away. And yeah, the paramedic was right, even after this whole incident, Stiles knew he wouldn't stop at this one time.

He closed his eyes and held his breath, laying as still as possible. If he were dead, he would be getting held by his mom right now.

 

.

 

Stiles slept the majority of the night, tossing and turning restlessly. Every so often he'd jump awake, sweating and shaking due to bad dreams. He never remembered the nightmares once he opened his eyes. All that was left was the lingering uneasiness. Each time he'd roll over to face his open bedroom door and focus his mind on the light filtering in from the stairwell. No matter how late he woke up that night, every time he could still hear his dad downstairs moving around or he'd hear the television going. Stiles wanted to get up and go sit with him, wanted to feel distracted for a short time, but he stayed in bed like he was suppose to. Then eventually he would fall back to sleep again.

By the time the sun was up Stiles couldn't pretend to sleep any more. The light came in through his window, without the help of the blinds to filter it out. It heated the small space like a sauna. Stiles kicked off his thin sheets, feeling suffocated. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.

He felt the way the medical tape lightly tugged on the skin of his thigh before he saw it. It wasn't so bad really, and if he didn't look down it was easy to ignore. The tug didn't even bother him too much as he stood up. Stiles did notice however that there were dried flakes of his blood speckled over his boxer shorts. He grimaced. Oddly though, he felt nothing toward it. The guilt had subsided. The anxiety was gone. He just felt numb, void of emotion. So, he shrugged and found a clean pair in his dresser drawer like he would have done any other day.

Stiles changed his boxers and found clean pajama pants, his favourite well-worn batman print ones he'd gotten a few years ago for Christmas. They were so worn that he could almost see through them in places. The pattern was faded from being washed and worn so often. But he pulled them on and sighed with contentment. They made him feel secure.

He decided to change his t-shirt too and tossed the dirty one he'd worn yesterday aside somewhere, adding to the permanent mess of his room. Stiles pulled a clean one on. He'd like to shower but didn't know how well the bandage would last once wet. So, he decided it could wait until later when he was told how to care for it, or more likely inevitable looked it up online because his dad would undoubtedly avoid the topic like the plague.

Stiles headed out of his room then and slowly made his way down the stairs. He was greeted along the way by the smell of syrup and frying bacon. It was delicious and his empty stomach gurgled and tightened, begging to get at the mapley, fatty goodness. His dad was on a diet to lower his cholesterol and shouldn't be eating bacon at all, on doctor's orders as well as Stiles' own paranoia. Normally, Stiles enforced that shit like crazy. But given recent events, he didn't exactly feel like he had any authority over what someone should or shouldn't be doing to their body. So as he stopped to stand in the kitchen, he didn't look at his dad with a disapproving glance or point out how he should be starting his day with fruit. Instead, Stiles slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants and remained neutral, eyeing the plate of hot pancakes on the counter.

John stopped poking at the bacon sizzling away on the stove and turned to look at him. The worried expression Stiles saw last night was covered up by awkward indifference. He gestured to the stack of pancakes with the spatula he was holding.

“Help yourself. Eat up. Bacon will be ready in a minute,” he said in short, stunted sentences.

Stiles said nothing. He just quietly took a plate down from the cupboard and put two pancakes on it. When he was seated at the table dressing up his breakfast, his dad brought over a few strips of bacon and put them on his plate. The sight was glorious, fluffy pancakes coated in butter and syrup with bacon laying across the top. For some reason though, despite how his stomach and taste buds demanded the sweet and salty flavours, Stiles no longer felt hungry or had the will to eat.

Still, he picked up his fork and tore off a small piece of pancake. The syrup was glossy and dripped in thick globs. Stiles forced himself to eat the bite. It was just as delicious as it smelt and looked which was unfortunately. His stomach turned and left the back of his throat tight.

John sat at the table across from him and they ate in moderate silence. The only noise passing between them was the clink of silverware and the occasional hum of acknowledgement that the food was good. Stiles couldn't find it in himself to break the ice and speak, so he lowered head to stare at his plate, poking idly at the bacon. It took a while for their breakfast to come to a pause long enough for them to make eye contact. In between eating more bacon, Stiles let out a small sigh when his dad finally said,

“We should talk about what happened last night.” It was obvious that he didn't want to, but it was inevitable.

Stiles leant back in his chair. He was at a loss for words which was rare for him. Normally he had an opinion about everything. However now he felt just so indifferent towards _everything_ that he could not muster up an explanation for why he did what he did. He couldn't give his dad the rational and thought out answer he knew he wanted. It didn't matter and in the end whatever he told his dad would make no difference. What was he to say other than that he was sorry? But how could he just apologise, it couldn't be that simple.

So, he did the first thing he could think of. Stiles shrugged and said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

 

.

 

In the end, their conversation ended where it began. Either John realised right away that he was in over his head or he gave up before even trying. Stiles didn't want to think about which of those were more accurate. He was kind of scared to know the answer.

Stiles didn't want to think about if his dad found him to be a disappointment and a waste of a son. To avoid the thought, Stiles cleaned up after breakfast and kept to his room. He fidgeted and bounced. His ADHD keeping him from relaxing for too long. His dad would come and check on him every half hour or so like he was expecting to find Stiles swinging from the ceiling light. But he didn't protest or dare close the door, just in case it set off warning signs for his dad to come running.

By early afternoon, they had a second awkward encounter and Stiles was starting to think this was their new relationship, weird silence and minimal eye contact. John came to stand in his bedroom doorway looking to be at his limits and on the verge of tears once more. It broke Stiles' heart to see his dad like that. So, when he was told that they had an appointment to go talk to a professional that day – as suggested by the paramedic – Stiles agreed to go without a fight. He dressed and did as told.

Once he was seated in the car, staring out the window, Stiles wondered how they got an appointment so quickly with a new therapist. At least that's where he assumed they were going. It made sense to him in his head. His dad didn't say who he'd be seeing, but he also didn't ask. They weren't heading in the direction of his normal therapist... That he was totally sure of.

It was reasonable then for him to be surprised when they found a parking space in the excessively large parking lot outside the Beacon Hills hospital. Stiles looked at the building, watched people move in and out of the main doors. But his dad waved him over along the side walk. They didn't head for the emergency room entrance or one of the other doors. Instead Stiles was guided along toward a separate building that he'd never been in before, as far as he could remember.

It looked well put together and clean on both the outside and in. Nurses bounces about inside the main lobby, going about their daily duties. Around them passed normal people dressed in jeans and other summer attire. They came and went like this wasn't a hospital at all. Stiles raised a confused eyebrow and stopped by the tall wall hung sign that directed visitors to each area of the building.

The first floor consisted of different service for addiction and likewise counselling. The second was rehabilitation services. Labs on the thirds floor. And the fourth – Mental Health wing.

Stiles blanched. He was visiting a psychiatric hospital? _'Thanks dad. Way to help your son not feel crazy'._ All he did was have a few panic attacks and try to kill himself. Okay, when put in those words, he sounded crazy, he could admit that. Still, he begrudgingly followed his dad up the elevator and onto the designated floor, knowing exactly where they were headed.

When the elevator doors opened, Stiles had to admit he found something weirdly soothing about the white walls and clean tiled floor. It felt nice and safe. It was definitely different from his usual once in a while therapy sessions with the Ms. – oh so pompous look at me and my diplomas – Monroe. Her office was dark and had too much stained wood surfaces for his liking. It actually use to scare Stiles when he was younger. This was much more open and comforting. Although he wasn't a fan of how the smell of industrial cleaners brought back painful memories of being in the hospital during his mother's passing. He tried to swallow the taste of anxiety threatening to burst forth and leave him trembling on the nice clean floor. He'd probably get snot and spit all over it. And the janitor did such a good job too.

Stiles was sent to take a seat as his dad spoke with the intake clerk. He wondered briefly if being the sheriff meant that he had some pull with the hospital staff, or would that be a conflict of interests? He probably didn't, but it was a thought. Stiles had a lot of those throughout the day. So much so that when he was finally tapped on the shoulder to go speak with the psychiatrist, Stiles had blocked out the world to the point he didn't know what time it was any more. He could have been staring into space for five seconds or two hours.

With a long breath he got up and followed his dad into the appointed office. It was small and had the potential to feel cozy. The light grey carpet and white calls, matched with cream chairs and a few other gradation of white-grey made the office look more like a living room one would find in a retirement home. Stages and clean. No real personality except the occasional ugly lamp.

As Stiles stepped forward a tall black man in a white coat stood from the farthest chair, easily stepping around the coffee table and greeted them in a professional and personal manner. Stiles wasn't paying too much attention to what he was saying, but he could tell there was genuine care behind his words. The guy had some nice eyes too. That helped a lot.

John gave his son a pointed look. He cleared his throat. “Stiles,” he said and waited for an answer.

Stiles blinked and looked between them. He hadn't been listening again.

Their doctor waved it off and asked Mr. Stilinski to wait outside for their session.

A lot seemed to be happening too fast for him to fully soak up and Stiles fell onto the cream coloured fabric couch suddenly very tired. The door to the office was closed and the doctor sat across from him in one of the arm chairs. He folded his hands in front of him, no clip board with a patronising check list of psychoses. Instead he smiled a fraction and said,

“Stiles, I'm Dr. Deaton. Do you know why you're here?”

 _Why ask? The answer was obvious._ Stiles nodded and sat on his hands so he wouldn't fidget and tug on his clothes or his hair. Unconsciously his foot bounces silently against the carpeted floor.

“You know, your father told me a lot about what happened over the phone but I would like to hear your side of the story. Do you want to talk about it? It'll be kept between just the two of us,” he continued.

“It's stupid. It doesn't matter,” was what Stiles finally said. He avoided eye contact, choosing to look at everything in the room but the doctor.

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“I don't know...” Stiles bit his lip. There was another pause before he kept going. “I failed AP Chemistry. Which is stupid because I was always good at chemistry. That's why I was taking that class, so I'd have a guaranteed good grade, and a good gpa, then I'd pass everything and I'd be graduating right now – not sitting in an hospital.” He let out a shaking breath. Was it hot all of a sudden or was he sweating for no reason?

“I see. And your grades are important to you-”

“If I got good grades... my dad would be proud of me. I'd get a good scholarships. I'd have the majority of college paid for because I'm smart. I'd pass that, get a degree... do... something.”

“What do you want to be, Stiles? What do you want to go to school for?” Deaton asked.

Actually, Stiles didn't have an answer. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He probably should have since he was a senior and all. “Uh... I-I don't know. Probably something good...Like, uhm, pays well?”

“Fair enough.” Deaton nodded and waited to see if he would say more. “Have you ever done...this before?”

The word 'this' hung in the air for a solid minute. Stiles knew he didn't mean failing a class. The question was aimed directly toward the white bandage covering his left wrist, the real reason why he was there. Now, he could lie. He could say it was a one time thing, that it'd never happen again and that he was sorry. This could all be over in one short therapy session. He could lie and walk away like nothing had ever happened. Hell, he could probably take a summer school class and graduate without too much hassle. Apply for college and start in the winter.

He thought about it. But Stiles looked at his wrist and let his shoulders sag. He nodded slowly before blowing out a lung full of air. “Some times,” he said vaguely.

“Would you like to elaborate?”

“Just...some times.” Stiles challenged.

“Very well... and does it make you feel... better afterwards? To do this when faced with failure?”

“This one time.”

“But not the others?”

“Them too... this was different. Those other times were... anxiety... nightmares... This time. I wasn't trying to... I didn't mean to...”

“You didn't mean to take it so far?” Deaton prompted a guess. It was refreshingly positive and nice of him to think that Stiles didn't mean to act on a suicidal impulse. However, he shook his head and looked back down at the floor.

Stiles let out a soft laugh, barely a weak chuckle. “I didn't mean to wake up.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes some friends.

This was not how Stiles expected his summer to go. There were only suppose to be a few precious months between high school and college where he didn't have to study or do homework. He was suppose to be sleeping in every day. He was meant to stay up late playing video games. The heat of the summer was suppose to be broken by swimming, eating ice cream, actually enjoying himself. Maybe being productive and getting a summer job. Instead, he was being carted off not two days after his short therapy session with Dr. Deaton.

He was generously classified as suicidal with impulsive behavioural tendencies. It wasn't an official diagnosis. They couldn't really do that after one session. But he'd been verbally accepting of the fact he self harmed with the intent to kill himself, and admitted to wanting it to happen, and avoided answering if it would happen again. So, for now, he was 'a risk to himself' to be left alone. There were some other fancy terms thrown around that wound his ass back at the hospital to stay: anxiety disorder, chronic depression. Blah Blah Blah

It kind of felt like pointing out the obvious. It wasn't like he was the only one in the world with either of those things. Stiles didn't feel like it was a big deal. He wasn't special.

But he was being lead out of the house by his father, a few articles of clothes shoved into his old school bag. They hadn't said much to one another since they first got back from meeting with Deaton, only silent judgmental glances. Stiles didn't want to be a burden more than anything else, so he couldn't work up the courage to apologise.

It was a sickening thought honestly. Stiles felt guilt for hurting his father and because he never wanted to make him sad like that – that was unintentional. He always wanted his dad to be happy. At the same time, he didn't regret doing what he did. The act of cutting himself with the intention to die was his own choice that would affect his own life. It was what he wanted. He just didn't want his dad to be involved in it. And if Stiles could keep his dad out of that, he'd do it again without a second thought.

The car ride wasn't long but Stiles was falling asleep toward the end. It didn't help that he was up all night with insomnia. At one point he drifted off but he was awake again in no time. The engine was cut as they parked, the air conditioning no longer blowing wonderfully cooled air on his face. With a childish pout, Stiles got out of the car, yawning and stretching awkwardly. He didn't feel ready to do any of this, wasn't sure of what to expect. In his mind he was imagining some horror movie level shit with ice baths, straight jackets, and shock therapy. He knew that was all bologna anyway. Legitimate eletrotherapy was in no way what they made it seem in the movies. But still...

Stiles' overactive imagination was quickly disappointed because he sure didn't expect for the Beacon Hills Hospital Psychiatric Ward to be so boring. Yeah, he would classify it as boring. The hallways were like all the others in the building, long, narrow and white. The main entry had a large desk stationed with nurses and staff. There were a number of doors along the hall, some open and some closed. The place was clean and well lit. Stiles was underwhelmed to say the least.

He was checked in by a far too perky nurse who was making eyes at Stiles' dad, he was sure of it. It was actually kind of awkward to watch. They had to sign a stack of paper work and agree to a bunch of things Stiles didn't fully understand or see the necessity for. Until they took his shoe laces and searched his bag. He should have seen that coming.

After they padded him down to make sure he didn't have anything remotely dangerous hiding on his person, Stiles was admitted.

His dad pulled him into a tight hug before he could get away. It was bone crushing and full of love, but Stiles could only find it in him to pat his dad's back like he was over reacting and that this whole ordeal would be over in an hour tops. He forced a little even smile, no teeth, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I love you, son...” John said, swallowing the urge to change his mind and take Stiles home.

Stiles nodded and looked at his dad. “I love you too, dad,” he said softly. His dad let him go and turned the thank the nurse. As he watched him leave, Stiles chose not the think about how his dad was leaving someone he loved alone at the hospital, again. Stiles sighed heavily and grabbed his bag from where it sat on the counter.

The perky nurse that had been checking him in waved over a nice looking volunteer. Stiles didn't look up till the guy was standing right in front of him. Nice looking was an understatement, he decided. The guy was incredibly attractive with his tidy brown hair and clear eyes. He was dressed in a soft grey t-shirt and plain jeans, with a lanyard hanging around his neck to show off his staff ID. The volunteer flashed Stiles a welcoming smile and held out his hand.

“Hey. Jordan Parrish. Let me show you around.”

Stiles swallowed heavily over the firm handshake. The guy was stronger than he looked. He tried to act cool about it though. Stiles had some odd and varied turn-ons in his life and physical strength was one of them. Probably because he himself had none to speak of. To the point that he couldn't even do a full push up. Stiles doubted pathetically hitting on the volunteers would go over well here so he just cancelled out the weird things he was feeling right away. No day dreaming about getting all up on Mr. Tall&Pretty.

Parrish lead him along the winding hallway, pointing at things as they went: notice board – which was encased in glass so no one could steal the push-pins, the rec room across from the nurses station. It also doubled as where everyone ate their meals. There were tables, couches, shelves lined with books, stuff to do to help pass the time. Boring shit, Stiles thought, no TV, no computer, nothing to do.

“You have your scheduled sessions. Group counselling on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Arts and craft on Saturdays. It's fun. You'll like it.”

Alright, Stiles came to the conclusion that if depression didn't drive him to kill himself, the boredom here would.

“And this is your wing. As you can see there are three. One down each hall way.” Parrish said pushing passed a set of swinging doors. “We have an enforced curfew of ten, so please be in your room at that time. You don't want to be escorted back by anyone... And I guess it kinda goes without saying but I'm going to say it anyway – Obviously, no going through anyone else's belongings. Doors remain open during the day. No sex.”

“Because getting kinky with a schizophrenic is at the top of my bucket list,” Stiles said sarcastically. Parrish wasn't even phased. He'd clearly heard worse jokes before. He smiled at him and continued on.

Most of the doors along the hallway were bedrooms. Just from the brief glances in, they looked like the world's most blandest dorm rooms ever. White, no detailing or personality. Two hospital beds per room, a side table between them, and a skinny IKEA looking dresser too small too hold anything other than a few shirts.

“Here we are. Room 5C. Don't be shy, make friends. There are a few patience close to your age. So just know, you're not alone here.” He knocked on the slightly askew wood door before pushing it all the way open.

Stiles poked his nose in behind Parrish. The room itself was identical to the other ones they had passed by, but this one had a person inside already. On one of the bed was a boy Stiles' age. His hair was dark brown which complemented his slight tan and equally dark brown eyes. When he looked up his eyebrows scrunched together in a sad, sympathetic, if not mildly confused expression that Stiles could tell was standard for him. With the wide eyed and parted lips, the guy looked like a kicked puppy.

The boy moved off his bed to stand. He was wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and was comfortably going barefoot. The book he was reading was tossed against the pillows for later.

Parrish playfully slapped Stiles on the back, simultaneously pushing him further into the room. “Scott, I'd like you to meet your new roommate. This is Stiles.”

.

Parrish left them to get better acquainted, which basically meant the two teen-aged boys just stood around staring at one another awkwardly for about five minutes. Stiles put his bag down on the floor and lightly kicked it aside with a foot. His shoes weren't quite sitting on his feet right but that's likely to happen when they didn't have shoe laces anymore. Can't have shoe laces when you're crazy. To be fair it was a legit safety issue. And if he were to be honest, he could get creative with a shoe lace.

“Uhm...” Scott started. “So, yeah... Okay. I guess... we're roommates now.”

“Sorry about that... Not trying to put you out or anything, man. You did have a... nice room all to yourself. So, sorry if I snore.” Stiles offered, trying to be a little funny and make a weird first impression less weird.

“That's fine. I might too. Not sure.” Scott moved over to the dress and stuffed his shirts out of the way. “You can put your things in here. They'll bring you shoes later so don't worry about those ones. Honestly, it's easier to go barefoot. The hospital shoes aren't exactly that comfortable.”

Scott made a flippant wave to the light blue sneakers sitting by the wall which were obvious his own. They looked like a knock-off of a knock-off brand of slip-on Vans, white sole, blue canvas top – something that would go on sale for five bucks at Target in the summer. They didn't look all that comfortable but he'd probably end up wearing them more often than not. So, Stiles nodded and moved over to dump his assorts shirts into the dresser drawer. It was a good thing he was wearing his only pair of jeans. Other than his shirts, he brought some socks and underwear, sweats and a pair of shorts. There wasn't really a lot to stuff in their shared storage so it all worked out.

“This is your bed, I guess,” Scott said after another long pause. “Unless you want to be closer to the window. It doesn't open but it had an alright view...”

“No, dude, it's cool. I'm not getting comfortable here...” Stiles really didn't want to spend his whole summer locked in a hospital. He told himself this was a week long thing, two at the most. It was a little white lie he told himself but it made him feel better about the whole situation. “They'll see that I can manage my shit and I'll be in summer school in time to graduate like I _should_ have already.”

“I'm going to have to repeat a year when I get out too,” Scott said since they were on topic.

“Yeah? Been here long?” Stiles asked. What else was he to do, avoid talking about why other people were here? Scott smiled at him and looked totally okay with the fact he was there. It didn't bother him, weirdly enough.

“I've almost been here for...” he thought about it, “going on six months now.”

“Jesus, why?” That sounded like a crazy long time to be in the hospital, especially since the guy looked fine to Stiles. Scott chuckled at him and shrugged.

After Stiles had put all his things away they slowly wandered out of their room and started on an unofficial tour of the floor again, this time with Scott at the helm instead of Mr. Pretty Smile. Scott rehashed a lot of the rules for him and some of the things they do to pass the time. He was a lot less inclined to be polite about how things were run, unlike the volunteer was obviously.

Scott told him how their hallway was mostly youths with suicidal tendencies and a history of self harm, with the occasional trauma patient going through depression. The second hallway was a little more serious. Nurses came and went out their door every few minutes. Schizophrenia, Dissociative Disorders, Personality Disorders. They were standing outside the quiet hallway a Scott explained when someone started screaming bloody murder. Stiles felt like he jumped five feet into the air, bumping into Scott by accident.

“It's cool, dude,” Scott said as a nurse ran passed them and disappeared through the swinging door. He didn't even looked startled.

“If you say so...”

“Yeah, that happened... a lot. You'll kinda get use to it.”

The third and last hallway were the aggressive patients. They were 'politely asked' to stay out of that hallway most of the time, as Scott explained. Not many of those patients hung out in the rec room or walked around like the rest of them. Though, there were some who did. That hall was mostly PTSD patients and those with traumas that caused violent tendencies or had a history of lashing out unexpectedly.

Shockingly, Stiles was starting to feel like his problems weren't so bad after all. He huffed a laugh, “No kidding.” He looked at Scott who nodded. They kept on walking.

“So, you were saying that you...” Stiles lead them off topic again, circling back to why Scott as here. Maybe it was too soon to bring it up, but the guy smirked and pulled up a chair in the rec room. They weren't the most uncomfortable things ever but Stiles got as settled as he could across from Scott. The two sat at a table with an abandon checkers board laying out on top. The scattered game pieces became very interesting all of a sudden. So, as Scott spoke, Stiles went about putting the pieces back to their starting position on either end of the board.

“Last year... I was out, it was late spring and we were having that weird heavy rain storm. It was really coming down and I shouldn't have been driving. Like, it was blowing sideways. Remember that? But I was out anyway, taking my girlfriend on a date. We went out every Saturday so I thought, what the hell. Little rain, no big deal. We were just going to the movies anyway.” Scott watched Stiles put all the pieces back in place. When they were all neat and tidy in their squares, he slid one piece out to restart the game. Then Stiles moved one of his own.

“I don't even remember what we saw. We spent the whole time making out at the back of the theatre.” Scott said, a light laugh sneaking out at the memory. “After the movie we were driving back. Allison always made fun of me for my driving... said I got distracted on a good day.”

“Yeah? Distracted how?”

“Like, if I were driving and you said something, I'd turn to look at you instead of watching the road. I know, I'm a shit driver.”

“That's not the worse thing ever,” Stiles tried to offer.

“Well, it was dark, windy and the road was really slippery. I was driving too fast and turned...” Scott trailed off, his fingers shaking as he picked up a checkers piece. Stiles could tell where the story was headed from the context alone and he felt terrible for the guy sitting across from him. He could see the tensing of his jaw, the way those puppy eyes started to water.

“Hey, dude... it's...”

“She'd still be alive. It was my fault.”

Stiles leant forward. “It was an accident.”

“I know. I've come to terms with that...” He took a breath and sighed. “Since then though, I've been depressed, got diagnosed with mild PTSD. I was on medication and everything. But right before school started... I worked at a veterinarian clinic... One day I swallowed half a jar of this dog medication. Blacked out on the floor half hour later when my body didn't throw it back up. Woke up in Emerg... They had pumped my stomach and pretty well saved my life.”

“Damn... that's rough.” Stiles really didn't know how to react to that story. Car crashes happened all the time. Being the sheriff's son, he'd heard all about how his dad pulled over speeders, drunk drivers, etc. But this was different for him to hear. Scott wasn't either of those things. He was a sweet guy from what Stiles could tell. Probably followed all the rules and was a good student, son – a total boy scout. So for that to happen, he could see how it completely killed Scott on the inside.

“I'm getting better. I still have the occasional nightmare but I haven't had an episode in two months. No crazy emotional breakdowns any more,” Scott said and put on a lopsided smile.

Stiles looked at the way he smirked. He wasn't smiling for him, to put on a show like many people did. It was soft and genuine. It was a clear indication that he really was feeling better given everything that happened to him. Stiles was a little bit jealous that the guy could smile so easily when he himself haven't been able to in a long time. He moved his checkers piece into a corner. “That's great,” he said quietly. “So, I guess you'll be out of here in no time.”

“I hope so. I feel ready to leave. I want to go back to school, finish up my senior year.”

“After that? What's the plan then?” Stiles was curious what other people wanted to do since he had no idea.

Scott laughed easily, causing another twinge of jealousy to shoot through Stiles like an electric shock. “That's more of trek. I'm gonna go to school. Get a degree in veterinary medicine.”

“Oh, you want to be a vet.” Stiles said. He could see it. He could see the guy snuggling animals all day and making sure they were safe and healthy. It was a good goal, good career. It suited Scott. Stiles didn't have something like that picked out for himself. “That's cool. You looking after all the kittens and puppies.”

“Man, you're good a checkers.” Scott said after losing their game. He started to collect his pieces and put them back in a row on his side of the board.

“You should see me play chess.”

“I don't know how to play chess.”

“What did you play, normally... I mean, at home.” Stiles asked.

“Video games.” Scott answered. “Wasn't one for board games...”

They continued playing their game of checkers, occasionally talking about the odd thing they did in their free time at home, interests, hobbies, shit like that. They had a lot in common it turned out. They both liked the same type of music, they played sports, liked video games and similar movies. Stiles had to admit that if he knew Scott, or met him somewhere else, they'd probably be great friends. He bit his lip and hoped they could be friends here. At least until Scott left and forgot all about him. That's usually what happened. People always left him.

He could be friends with someone for years, then one summer apart and suddenly they can't seem to remember his name.

“I won't push... if you don't wanna talk about it, but... why are you here?” Scott asked during a break in the conversation.

Stiles looked over at him. His face felt hot and his mouth ran dry. He didn't have a soul crushing story to tell like Scott did. His own problems sounded so pathetic and stupid in comparison, like it was some kind of contest of who's life is shittier than who's. It almost felt insulting to tell Scott the truth. He fidgeted and started to bounce his foot without even noticing he was doing so.

He decided to simply hold up his wrist, nonchalantly waving his bandage around. With a shrug he said,

“Failed.”

That was all he could say...

.

Stiles didn't think he'd adjust to living at a hospital. He thought it'd be slow, boring, soul crushingly dull. And yeah, he was right. It was all those things. But thankfully, he had Scott. Four days, and two counselling sessions in, he didn't think he'd be able to get through it all without the fluffy ball of sadness that was Scott. The occasional snoring didn't even bother Stiles much any more. It was actually somewhat comforting to know that at three a.m there was someone there for him if he needed to talk.

Where Stiles went, Scott was close behind.

Where Scott went, Stiles was clinging to his side the whole way.

They were total bros now. They had a lot in common and always found something to talk about, laugh over. Even on really shitty days when Stiles felt like all he could manage to do was stare at a wall, Scott was there to poke him in the face and make him get up.

It was on one of those days, Stiles' first Saturday spent at the hospital, that Scott had to almost physically remove Stiles from their room. Apparently Saturday was the best day of the week there, according to Scott. They got eggs for breakfast and muffins. There was group arts and crafts. Stiles was told it was fun, though he didn't see how. And after dinner, they got jello. This could only be exciting to Scott because as it turned out, Scott loved jello.

Stiles let himself be dragged out of bed. He didn't bother to change out of the thin, worn sweatpants he'd been wearing for the passed two days or out of the sorta-kinda clean orange t-shirt he just recently been sleeping in. His feet dragged over the clean tiles. By days two of his stay, Stiles gave up on the hospital shoes given to him. They ended up being just as uncomfortable as they looked, rubbing at his heal and toes in all the wrong ways. So, he adopted the Scott alternative and went barefoot. Avoid blistering and all that.

At breakfast Scott took a seat in the rec room and contently slathered ketchup all over the eggs. It was interesting to watch him eat. It was, in a word, inelegant. Ketchup was splattering over the table, his plate, probably the floor. Bits of scrambled egg fell off his fork as he tried to shovel too much into his mouth at once. Stiles huffed out a laugh, amused.

He poked his fork at his own food. The eggs looked like they were cooked in a microwave, left out until they were rubbery and dry, then microwaved again. They had a weird synthetic shine to them and didn't really smell like anything. He sighed and put a little ketchup on them to preemptively ward against the awful taste that they certainly had. He'd much rather eat the plastic looking blueberry muffin on his plate.

At least he had apple juice and his pills – whatever they were. After his counselling sessions this week, he was prescribed some kind of medication. Though Stiles had a sneaking suspicion they were placebos because they didn't appear to actually do anything for him. He felt no different after taking them. But he swallowed the couple little tablets with some juice and took a bite of his eggs. Damn, they were just as chewy as they looked.

“I want pancakes,” Stiles blurted out a little louder than he meant to be. But he was mad about the food. It wasn't good, plain and simple. He cooked better food for himself at home using the actual microwave. Scott snorted and lightly choked on a mouthful of food.

“Oh, man, those would be delicious,” Scott agreed.

“Do they ever serve pancakes here?”

Scott thought for a seconds. “Yeah, they do occasional. I think the food goes on rotation. So we'll get the same thing for a while, then it'll get changed to something else. In the winter we get oatmeal a lot.”

“Ugh, kill me.” Stiles teased and stuffed the muffin into his mouth. He snickered as Scott laughed harder.

It was nice to feel like he connected with someone at the hospital, someone really easy going and honest. They talked like they've been friends forever. They understood each others sense of humour and was quick to pick up on body language and expression. They were two peas in a pod. Stiles didn't know what he would do now without Scott around. He didn't want to be dependant on the guy because that was just as unhealthy as being alone, but he desperately didn't want to be without him.

He tried to remind himself that this wasn't permanent for either of them. Scott would be out of here and back in school. Hell, Scott could be released tomorrow and Stiles would just have to let him leave. Then they would be apart and Scott would forget about him, settling into his old life and habits with real friends and family. Stiles knew Scott had his mom waiting for him outside the hospital. So he knew how the guy would give every free second of his time to her. He'd do the same for his dad. Well, he'd try.

Stiles left the eggs on his plate and focused on eating the muffin. He didn't want to think about losing his new friend just yet.

“Not going to eat those?” Scott asked, pointing at the eggs left over with his fork.

“Dude, if you can stomach them, you can eat them.” Stiles pushed the plate across the table.

Breakfast gave away to morning activities. Stiles wanted to go back to his room and read but Scott wouldn't let him quote-unquote 'sulk' so he dragged Stiles around the floor. They played checkers and some random board game, many of which had convenient missing pieces. Stiles would bet money on the possibility of someone having eaten them. He didn't have proof of this but he seriously would put good money on it.

They ate lunch together in comfortable silence. Stiles devoured his ham sandwich and oatmeal cookie. He was hungry after not eating much at breakfast. And considering Scott's enthusiasm, he may need the energy. They had arts and crafts to get through, and today they were painting. Oh joy.

Stiles was not what one would call 'artistic'. He could draw one hell of a stick man if he tried but painting was a little out of his wheel house. Scott looked raring to go with his paper and paintbrush in hand. Stiles gave him a curious look, lips pressed together tightly.

“What are you going to paint?” Scott asked, ignoring the look he was getting.

Stiles hummed and smacked his lips. “Welp, I was thinking of starting off with an impressionist piece, maybe move into some crazy abstract bit with bright colours if I got time. Oh please! What do you think? I'm going to paint a blob and call it a picture. You?”

“Not sure really. She always wants us to paint what we feel,” Scott said nodding toward the volunteer art teacher for the afternoon. She looked like a nice lady, bright and perky and happy to be there. Not at all like the art teacher Stiles had at school. That was a waste of a class if there ever was one. If he remember correctly, everyone got an A+. Even the one guy who showed up high every class and started eating the modelling clay. All the teacher said at the time was that 'at least the clay is organic and nontoxic'. Because you know, that's the type of statement you get from a responsible teacher.

“Paint what I feel? What does that mean?” Stiles asked. He figured it was some bullshit.

“Paint that blob. Whatever you feel. I guess... I don't actually know. I just dump paint on the paper and mush it around. It's fun.

“Your idea of fun is weird.” Stiles picked up his paintbrush and stared at the piece of paper laying before him like it was a calculus exam. His eyebrows scrunched together from a nervous twitch.

“What would you rather be doing?” Scott asked as he dove into his masterpiece.

“Literally anything other than this,” Stiles sighed and thought about it for a second. “Well... it's sunny and warm. So, I guess... I'd be taking my jeep for a drive. Stopping for a burger, curly fries, or a gas station slushy.” But instead, he was stuck doing arts and crafts like a five-year-old. If he was suppose to 'paint what he felt', Stiles would paint a large _fuck you_ banner because he was feeling rather pissed off now.

“Hanging out with friends?” Scott asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Stiles put his elbow up on the table so he could cover his mouth with his hand. He stabbed his paintbrush into the red and blue colours and started mixing them together aggressively. “No, I... I never really had many.”

“Oh...” Scott said. The empathy in his tone made Stiles want to cry. However, he just jabbed and tried to break his paintbrush against the provided canvas.

Stiles heard an unimpressed scoff and a light swear from across the room. He'd learned to ignore some of the sounds he heard but he looked up anyway out of curiosity.

The lunch tables had been pushed together to make long rows where everyone could paint. At the end of one row, off towards the window, was a stunning redhead that was busy crumpling up a piece of paper to start something new. She didn't throw the wad of paper away. Instead she set it aside carefully in a pile of already discarded paintings.

The longer Stiles watched the more aware of her he became. Even while stuck in a hospital with limited resources for personal care, she was gorgeous. Totally the type of girl who, if she could, would be decked to the nines in fashionable clothes and makeup that she didn't really need. Her hair was braided to one side in a way Stiles didn't think he could understand unless he somehow acquired an engineering degree. It looked good on her, and the sun hit the red tones beautifully, showing off the more strawberry blonde highlights.

She had full pouting lips and wide eyed. Though that wasn't as distracting as her big... the blatant cleavage was enough to make Stiles stop stabbing a hole through his paper and just sit in awe. He had a feeling that if he saw her outside somewhere in all her glory he'd probably choke on his own tongue, almost like he was doing now. And she would promptly ignore him, like all pretty girls did.

Though, no offence to her, Stiles still thought Parrish held the title of prettiest smile. And yes, he was giving everyone he met little yearbook awards to keep them all straight in his head. Parrish was best smile. Scott had the duel title of best kicked puppy expression, as well as most likely to survive on his own. There was a smattering of titles thrown in there for some nurses and his doctors. This girl, Stiles was considering giving her the award for best boobs but he didn't know her well enough for that, so it felt inappropriate.

Stiles elbowed Scott in a less than subtle manner. He almost spilt their shared tray of paint all over the place but ignored all that. Scott jumped because of it though, because the action leaked paint all over the picture he was working on.

“Wha-”

“Dude, who's that?” Stiles asked in a hushed tone. He pointed with his brush and waited for an answer. Scott took his time figuring out who he was gesturing towards but eventually caught on.

“Oh, that's Lydia,” he finally said. “She got here a few months ago. We don't talk much or anything.”

“What's her dealio?”

Scott shook his head. “You're not thinking of-”

“Just curious is all. Come on, tell me. You know don't you? Tell me.” Stiles waved the paintbrush at him, threatening to ruin the shirt he was wearing in doing so.

“Fuck, okay. From what I know from the occasional group counselling we've been in together, I think she has obsessive-uh... Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. Other than that, I know her room isn't in our hallway.” Hint-hint-nudge-nudge. Thank you, Scott.

“She's here for that? Is that bad? Is she...” Stiles asked. Okay, it was hard to call someone crazy after meeting actually clinically _crazy_ people. So, he let his words trail off.

“She screams a lot and I know she-”

The sound of a paintbrush being thrown interrupted them. They both stopped everything and looked over to where Lydia was sitting. Her once interested smile had turned into a disapproving sneer. She'd already crumpled up her newest painting and was looking less than calm. A nurse was already starting to intervene by the time she stood up to grab for more paper.

“Uh...” Stiles looked at Scott who was quickly avoiding all eye contact with the scene in front of him. “She okay?”

“That depends-”

He was interrupted again by a very loud scream that had a way of bouncing off the tiles and echoing down the halls. Scott only winced but Stiles wasn't expecting it at all. He dropped his brush and clapped his hands over his ears. He looked over to see Lydia being pulled away from the table and carefully walked out of the room. She did not seem happy over being taken away from the project she was determined to perfect.

Once she was out of the room the screaming was dull enough that Stiles could drop his hands. Though it did not settle the erratic beating of his startled heart.

The rec room was left in an awkward haze, nurses suddenly put on the alert and patients trying to not be triggered into their own mini break downs. Stiles simply felt a mix of sympathy, embarrassment, maybe guilt. Either way his stomach felt like it was in knots and he no longer wanted to sit there. Scott leaned over seeing his distress. He put a hand on his back and lightly rubbed at the patch of skin just above his shirt collar. Scott's hand was warm, weirdly calloused, but very soothing.

“Thanks buddy... but I'm fine.” Stiles said, too tired to actually swat Scott's hand away. Normally he would, but he didn't want to this time around. The fingers stayed put and gave Stiles a small sense of security. It wasn't a firm enough grip for him to totally relax, but Scott didn't exactly have a pair of mitts on him. The guy was closely built like himself, long limbed and a little scraggly. Stiles was definitely skinnier and had less definition thanks to his weird depression eating habits. Scott was more, what he would call, a thin jock.

“So,” Stiles started breaking the silence between them that had fallen. “That happen a lot?”

“Yeah,” because Scott didn't sugar coat things or maybe didn't have the wherewithal to do so.

Stiles put his chin back in his palm and stared off across the room toward the window. He was going to have to revoke Lydia's award now. He was thinking – best lung capacity, or most judgmental.

He was suddenly feeling worse than he did that morning when he woke up. The energy to do anything had disappeared to the point the breathing felt like a chore. Stiles sighed heavily and slumped over the table in defeat. He was done for the day. He didn't want to see anymore people, didn't want to have to talk to anyone or do anything. Arts and crafts couldn't end fast enough so he could go back to his room to hide.

Stiles felt his eyes prickle with the onset of tears. His chest tightened uncomfortably and he suddenly couldn't break. He felt Scott's hand move off him but at the same time was unaware of it.

It was also like the temperature in the whole building shot up be fifty degrees. It was way too hot for him. Why was it so bloody hot?

Stiles pushed back in his chair. The quick motion sent the heat to his head and before he knew it, he was bent over with his head between his knees, hyperventilating uncontrollably.

He heard voices around him but didn't catch what they were saying. Decidedly he clamped his hands back over his ears to muffle out the extra sounds.

He felt like he was going to throw up right then and there. Or maybe pass out. Or both. He couldn't tell.

There was a sudden pressure on his body. It was only gentle hands, a tap or a rub at his back, but it felt like a crushing weight. Stiles just gave himself over to being smothered to death by whatever was happening around him. He didn't resist when it felt like he was being thrown from his chair. Though actually he was carefully picked up and set into a wheelchair. He was guided to sit back and was held in place as nurses removed him from the rec room.

Stiles closed his eyes tightly. All he wanted was fresh air. He'd calm down then. He knew he would. But instead he was wheeled back to his stuffy room in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More familiar faces and more issues. Chapter Three will be coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good days. Bad days. And Derek days.

Days went by in a haze. Stiles didn't say much to anyone other than Scott, or Parrish when he saw the guy. He didn't respond to therapy or have anything to say in group counselling. He didn't want to talk about his panic attack or how he was currently feeling. Thankfully, it wasn't pushed and he was able to sit in uncharacteristic silence for a few days.

Scott was in a really good mood by Wednesday. He wouldn't shut up about the fact his mom was visiting and he'd been smiling from ear to ear all morning. Stiles was jealous that he could smile like that. He wanted to be able to smile so easily. He missed smiling. Actually, he wanted a lot of things. He wanted his dad. He wanted to be outside. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. It was glaringly obvious he wasn't getting any of that any time soon.

Scott spoke to fill the silence of their shared room. He told him all about his mom and what she was like. He offered to introduce them later if he wanted. She apparently always brought chocolate chip cookies when she visited. It sounded great, not that Stiles could get excited about it. He politely listened and scratched at what remained of the tiny scabs along his leg.

Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that if his dad were to visit, the only think he'd bring with him would be his disappointed and judgemental stare. Stiles snorted at the idea. As much as he wanted to see his dad, at the same time, he really didn't want to. He didn't want to be anywhere near him.

Some how, he still didn't know how, Scott talked Stiles into going to meet his mom. It did however involved a lot of bribery involving cookies, followed by some manhandling. Eventually he was removed from his Stiles burrito, unrolled from the mass of blankets and limbs he's curled into, and pulled off the bed. Scott shoved Stiles into some clean clothes. The whole time Stiles trying to behave himself enough to be changed into his one pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt.

He looked presentable enough in Scott's opinion after that. Not that his mother would be insulted if they showed up in their pajamas, but he wanted to make her happy. Scott was a good son.

Stiles went along after lunch and sat in the rec room with Scott, waiting. Being out of bed was a little refreshing but not by much. Being dressed made him feel better too, a little bit. Less stuffy. But he didn't bring this up to anyone.

Stiles would have to remember to thank Scott later for dragging him out of the room. By the end of all this, Stiles would have to thank Scott for a lot of things. The guy was a bigger help to him than the fucking doctors half of the time.

Scott's mom, Melissa, did bring them cookies as promised. There were a few chocolate chip cookies, and a couple with white chocolate. They were all freshly homemade and Stiles wanted to devour the whole tupperware container, lick it clean, then eat the plastic they were so good. He hadn't had homemade cookies in a very long time. Neither he nor his father baked. Melissa smiled warmly at him and laughed when he shoved another in his mouth before even swallowing what was already being chewed.

Stiles blushed and felt a bit embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbled around his mouthful of cookie. “These are really good.”

“Eat as many as you want, Stiles. I can always bring you more another day,” she said sweetly.

Stiles smiled, his lips twitching up in the corner enough to show crumb caked teeth. It was a real smile for him, something he hadn't done a lot of recently. He'd smirked or smiled a little here and there but he'd yet to have an honest to god, eye winkling, ear to ear, happy grin. This was kinda of close though.

Stiles liked Melissa already and they had only just met. She seemed genuinely sweet and loving. He wanted to give her a big hug and soak up all that mothering affection. Instead, he sat back in his chair and let Scott fill his mom in on everything that they'd gone through with medication and therapy and how he was feeling.

Scott was doing way better than he used to here. He was so well adjusted and calm. Melissa was thrilled.

Stiles could see that they had a great relationship. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted that love to bleed over into his own family. He kind of wished they could all be one big family, Melissa and his dad, bro-Scott and himself. It sounded like a perfect little fantasy. Maybe his dad would be open to the idea of dating. _Ha-Ha, yeah right._

They stayed this way for the better half of an hour. Stiles avoided a lot of questions about himself, asking Melissa what Scott was like as a kid, snooping around for embarrassing stories and shit to get everyone else laughing. He didn't want to talk about himself in front of such a nice lady. He was scared it'd disappoint her too and then she wouldn't want to come back and see him. Stiles went as far as to sit on his hands to try and hide his bandaged wrist.

It turned out being that ever little bit conscious of his wrist made it impossible to ignore. Stiles felt like the bandage weighted heavily on his arm. The skin was suddenly hot and it itched. He balled his hand into a fit, letting his nails sink into his palm to cause a sharp pain in hopes to take his mind of it.

Visiting hours ended and Melissa had to go. She gave Stiles a hug and it was one of the most amazing things he'd ever felt. It made him almost want to cry, but just almost. Afterwards, he watched her leave and Stiles found himself sitting back down with his arm laying in his lap. He idly picked at the medical tape around is wrist. His cut had been checked over the week and re-bandaged a couple times now. The more he thought about it, the more he felt how irritated his skin was. The scabs were dry and he desperately wanted to pick at them. He snagged the tape on his nails and peeled it back a bit enough to play with the flap.

“Dude?” Scott asked, watching him pick at the tape.

“Your mom's great. I like her.” Stiles told him to avoid the inevitable question. Scott either knew what he was doing and asked anyway, or didn't pick up on his subtlety.

“You want to talk about it?”

_Yes... No..._

“Have you ever failed a class before?” Stiles blurted out. He clamped his hand down over the bandage. “At school, I mean. Did you ever have to retake a class?”

“Not until now, no... Came close before a few times. I'm not that great at math.” Scott turned in his seat to look at him straight on, not sure where this conversation was going.

“Well, uh... I failed AP Chemistry. Which is hilarious to think about because it was always one of my best classes. It was like a cruise course. I'd get an easy A and breeze through graduation.” Stiles thought long and hard about the passed few months, how he could get such a poor grade. After all the studying he put in after getting a B+ on the first test of the semester, he knew the material, he did. Even now, if asked he could probably give the correct answer to every question on the final exam. That didn't help at the time though, how when he sat in class and choked, unable to answer a single question correctly.

“I studied so hard. Every day. I know that shit.”

“It's not the bad...”

Stiles waved him off. “Yes, it is. I don't fail classes, Scott. I had one of the top gpa scores in school. I was going to get scholarships to go to college. Now, I can't even go to summer school to get the credit.”

“So, you...”

“I never handed in any of the assignments... I did them, but never handed them in. I'd panic and throw them out after class.” Stiles bounces his knee. He felt like a total loser for saying something so dumb. “Every test, I'd be sitting there and my mind would go totally blank, like I had never taken a chem class in my life. I wouldn't know any of the answers... I got such a bad mark. Now, I'm here. I didn't graduate.”

Scott said nothing and gave Stiles that sympathetic big eyed look. The sympathy wasn't what Stiles needed though. He didn't know what he needed honestly. His fingers twitched and scratched at the tape hoping to claw his way through the adhesive to get to his scabbed skin underneath. The sharp pain would be a temporary relief. That would be enough for now, mostly because it wasn't fucking pity. Physical pain didn't judge or scold you, it was a warm, calming burn.

Stiles nail missed the tape and scratched over the exposed skin of his forearm. There was a small sting from the abrupt scratch. A thin line of red irritation slowly began to form. It felt physically good, but with Scott sitting less than a foot away, it made Stiles feel worse emotionally. He felt ashamed and pathetic.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me. Dumb ass...”

There was a judgemental scoff and a click of a tongue. Stiles turned in his chair toward whoever was behind him. He was about to tell them off until he saw who it was.

Standing at the bookshelves, turned to face the rows of used and falling apart books, was this tall body mass wrapped in thin sweats and a tight white t-shirt. Stiles had an amazing view of broad shoulder muscles tapering down into a slim waist. He could see the way certain muscle tensed and moved as the guy lifted an arm to select a book off the shelf.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something back at him, an insult of some sort, but it died off as he got distracted by the sculpted ass not at all hidden by those workout pants.

Mr. I-Do-Prison-Push-ups turned around and glared like he knew what Stiles was staring at. His thick brow scrunched together briefly before shooting up in a silent 'can I help you, bitch' manner. Stiles snapped his gaping mouth shut and tore his eyes away from the guy's waist line, less he get beaten up for checking out his dick as well. Which, he had to say – to himself if not Scott later – had an amazing outline in those pants. Sweats did not hide anything.

Looking up ended up being a bad idea too because that chest did all kinds of things for him. Stiles bet the man's tan carried on everywhere under the white fabric. Was it okay that Stiles suddenly had the urge to run his tongue all over that body?

He eventually got up to his face. Even with the 'I'm going to kill you' expression, he looked too good to be real. Mr. Sexy Pants had super scruffy dark stubble from infrequent shaving. It suited his sharp jaw line and went far too well with his bed rested black hair. Stiles met his eyes and melted into their bright hazel. It left him feeling all hot and bothered in ways he'd never felt before. And he'd jacked off to loads of porn before in his life. This was different than that. He just wanted to sink his teeth into those muscles and rub all up on that.

Stiles' happy eye humping had to end when the guy turned, his complete attention turning to the book in his hand. He promptly walked passed them without even reacting to the two teens staring at him. Stiles watched him walk away, heard his shoes scuffing across the floor when his feet didn't stomp under his weight.

He gestured after him just as the guy left the rec room. “Uhm, fuck you too buddy...” He seethed and turned to Scott, who had spun so far around and was looking far off in the opposite direction like there was something really interesting going on at the nurse's station.

“Hey, yo, dude. What the hell was that?” Stiles demanded feeling blown off. “You know that guy?”

“I... N-no?”

.

“Come on, Scottyboy. You are so lying to me right now. Just tell me his name before I go ask him myself,” Stiles threatened.

It had been three whole days. Three days and he still hadn't seen Mr. Sexy Stubble anywhere. This guy didn't eat with the group, didn't join their counselling, or attend their activities. He was a grumpy lone wolf, except for his tendency to butt into other people's private conversations and voice his ass hole opinion. Or maybe it was a one time thing and Stiles was just special. So, how could he not be interested in all that?

It wasn't like he was going to go propose to the guy or jump him in the shower. But he couldn't stop thinking about those strong arms haunting his fantasies. He at least wanted a name to give his wet dream boyfriend. Scott stood his ground though, refusing to give up anything he knew. If he honestly didn't know, Stiles wouldn't have minded so much or had been so persistent, but Scott knew things and wouldn't say. And he knew Scott knew. Therefore, Stiles need to know these things too.

“A name. A diagnosis. Is he single?”

“Oh, hell no, Stiles. He's-you are not doing whatever it is you're thinking of.” Scott snapped at him. He stopped folding his clean laundry and got up from where he sat on the floor.

“Give me one good reason why you won't tell me about this guy.” Stiles crossed his legs and sat up straight on his bed. The two stared each other down in silence for a long minute.

“You are aware he stays with all the patients who are dealing with aggressive tendencies, right? Not enough of a reason for you – potential violence?” Scott asked.

“It crossed my mind, yeah.”

Scott threw up his hands. “A reason to not tell you his shit? How about it just not being your business? Or how about he likes his privacy? Or even better, he's here for treatment, to get better, not have you hit on him all the time. Which I have a feeling you would.”

Stiles' shoulders sunk. Alright, yeah, he was nosy, and irritating, and stubborn. So, maybe, Scott had a point there. “Alright, I get it...” He said, letting his arms flop over his knees.

“Okay, good. Don't forget you have a session soon.” Scott sat back down on the floor and continued to fold his shirts.

“Oh, gee-wiz, thanks mom.” Stiles teased with chipper heavy sarcasm. He sighed through his nose and looked down. He looked at the half peeled off tape that he'd been getting at lately. Like a nervous twitch he started to pick at it again. There wasn't much left holding it together by this point and while he shouldn't be doing it, Stiles picked and peeled and tugged on the itchy irritating adhesive. The tape gave way without enough glue to hold on. The wad of gauze around his wrist clung on by sweat and the few bits of skin dried into the material. Curiously he peeled the gauze off and let it fall into his lap.

The cut was healing well and was on its way to being just a memory. The thick scab was dry and had some flaking. Edges were raised and felt rough under his finger tips. White scar tissue lined the outer edge of the brown scab already, telling Stiles it'd always be there. Well, if it wanted to remain on his wrist, let it. His nail hooked under the little cracked edge and scratched.

The skin came up with his nail easily. It stung at first. He could feel fresh skin tear. Stiles bit his lip and tried to stay quiet but the sudden pump of adrenaline made him want to moan.

Stiles quickly looked over to Scott out of fear of being caught. The guy was busy putting away his clothes and hadn't noticed anything yet. He swallowed, feeling guilty for digging at his skin with Scott right there to see. He didn't feel guilty for doing it, but he didn't want Scott to watch. So, Stiles grabbed his ripped bandage and climbed off his bed.

“I'll be right back,” he said before taking off out of their room and down the hall for the bathroom.

Each hallway had two bathrooms for the patients. It was mildly private. But it was a security issue for everyone's well being, or some other bullshit, so while the rooms had locks they could be easily opened from the outside. Stiles ignored that as he closed the door and flipped the lock.

Now alone, he allowed himself a long breath and sighed aloud. He sunk to the floor with his back pushed into the door. His body trembled but he didn't stop himself. His nails picked and scratched away at the dry skin of his wrist. Stiles closed his eyes and let himself feel every scrape and tear until he could register anymore that it hurt. A light whimper left his throat as a particularly large scab was torn off, taking a layer of fresh skin along with it.

Stiles thought about what he was doing – hiding away so he could dig at his arm, to make himself hurt. He'd walked out on a friend. Scott was a friend. A really caring one too. One that would be very upset if he found out. Stiles hunched forward over his arm, nails continuing to grate over the broken skin, digging and clawing long lines.

Scott would have been there to offer support or something, right? If Stiles had asked. But he didn't, he ran away to isolate himself with his daemons.

His shoulders hitched up to his ears. Chin to chest, he shook. Heavy sobs poured from his chest. He could barely breathe through the tears and wailing cries. It wasn't a pretty picture. Tears, snot, drool, and blood, all over him. Stiles used his shirt collar as a tissue, too desperate to reach for toilet paper. He rubbed his nose and face on the shirt, wetting it through.

His chest felt empty, limbs weightless. There was no resistance in him as his body fell to the side. Stiles remained curled up on his side, crying rivers of tears into the floor until someone found him there.

.

Whatever they changed Stiles medication to was definitely doing something for him now. Though he strongly believed anything labelled an anti-depressant was faulty advertisement. It wasn't as bad as calling something a happy-pill because then he'd be taking ecstasy, and Stiles could guarantee their family health care did not include those types of drugs.

Ecstasy would actually make him feel something, to be fair. Whatever it was he'd been given that morning to swallow just muted everything he could possibly feel. Because that was what anti-depressant did. They didn't make a person happy. They didn't take away your problems. They just left you feeling indifferent about how shitty everything was. So, Stiles sighed and leant back in his chair, watching the rec room around him. He felt unsurprisingly numb to it all.

At least he wasn't an emotional train wreck. Well, that was debatable. Train wreck Stiles had the option to feel his emotions. Drugged Stiles was completely void.

He also hadn't spoken much. He avoided Scott when he could. He also wasn't really eating. And he sure as hell wasn't happy.

Three weeks. He'd officially been at the hospital three weeks and didn't look to be getting out any time soon. Summer wasted inside, without video games or swimming, no friends. Stiles had so far seen Melissa twice as much as his own dad. It really was a shit situation. He was just going along with it though, taking whatever pill given to him and sitting with his appointed therapist for their sessions.

He liked Deaton. They sat and some times talked. Stiles would tell him how he was feeling, what triggered his most recent tear-fest. Deaton left his window open which was really nice. Stiles hadn't felt fresh air in so long. He really wanted to go for a walk outside, and told Deaton every single time he sat down before a meeting.

They talked about his dad, school, the future, his wrist that had to be looked after yet again.

Then Stiles would head back to his room feeling about the same as he did prior. There was no magic spell put over him that lifted all of his problems away or anything. He still felt like hell. If he had to think about it, the only difference was now he was aware that he felt like hell, and why he felt like hell. He didn't want to think about it.

Stiles was brought out of his thinking when a smug feminine voice spoke loudly in his ear.

“You should let your hair grown a little longer.”

Stiles turned a little and looked up to find Lydia sanding over him, eyes busily scanning over his body like she was evaluating his appearance. Of course she was, Stiles was use to that at school by all the pretty girls who wouldn't give him the time of day. Clothes weren't everything you know! He was a lovely fucked up person under all his cheap clothing and lazy appearance.

“Yeah? Should I?” He asked, only half interested in why she was talking to him.

Lydia took the chair beside him without invitation and started telling him exactly why his current hairstyle didn't suit him. Stiles no longer rocked a buzz cut and had let his bangs grow in just this passed year, but according to this chick who apparently knew everything there was to know in life – it need to be longer. Then it would compliment his face shape and 'size of his head'. Whatever that meant.

Stiles looked her over too. Lydia was even prettier up close. The way the sunlight was landing on her made Stiles change his mind about her hair colour all together. It was definitely strawberry blonde, not red. He smiled for her the best he could in his state of void emotions. It probably looked a little creepy.

“Sure. I'll get on that,” he told her softly.

“Good.” Lydia flipper her hair over her shoulder. She looked very pleased with herself.

“You're Lydia, right?”

“Yes.”

“Stiles,” he said offering his hand to shake like a polite gentleman. She just looked at it then to him.

“What's a stiles?”

Shot down. Alright then. He dropped his hand. “Uh... my name.”

“Of course, you'd have a weird name.”

Lydia only turned but the sudden additional voice made Stiles almost jump out of his chair. Once again his conversation had been interrupted by that oddly soft voice from such a grump man. Mr. Pure Sex-appeal was standing by the book shelf again. This time in jeans instead of sweatpants. The tight fabric clung in ways Stiles felt should be illegal. It left very little to the imagination. Not that he was complaining.

Secretly, or maybe not so secretly from the way he stared, Stiles did not mine the jeans one bit. He loved them.

Lydia ignored the mass of muscle and tanned skin. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Rude,” she sassed and looked back at Stiles.

He wasn't quick enough to recover from the sight of denim. His mouth was slightly hanging open and his face felt hot from a very noticeable blush. If he weren't on heavy meds, there probably would have been an uncomfortable boner situation going on. That would have been weird to explain to all parties involved.

The guy picked out another one of the thicker novels off the shelf and headed back towards his hallway. Stiles brain caught up to him only because the guy turned and gave him a sideways glance as he left. He looked as though Stiles' very existence was an insult to him. So of course, Stiles shot up out of his chair and said,

“Thanks,” the word spitting out of him with contempt. Okay, it wasn't a comeback or anything smart, but the guy smirked and walked away.

He had no idea what possessive him to say 'thanks' for all things but then again all the blood in his body wasn't exactly going to his brain. Stiles sat back down and looked at Lydia., embarrassed.

“That guy really bugs me,” he pointed out.

“Oh, I can see that,” Lydia informed him, circling a finger in the air in the direction of his bright red blushing face. She chuckled and waved it off. “Don't take anything Derek says too seriously.”

“D-Derek? Derek. His name is Derek?” Stiles stammered throwing a hand out in the direction of where _Derek_ had gone.

“If I saw 'yes', are you going to have an aneurysm?”

“No.” Stiles said, but it was more of an unsure question. He just might.

Lydia smirked and curled up in her chair. She was finding his reaction very hilarious. “First of all, calm the hell down. Second, yes, his name is Derek.”

“Well, wha-what do you know about him? Cuz he is... you know?” Stiles tried to say something intelligent but couldn't. Instead his hands made rushed gestures.

“What, rude and emotionally stunted? I know,” Lydia said.

“Not really what I meant.”

“I'm just teasing you.”

.

His name was Derek Hale, Lydia had gladly told him, happy to have someone to gossip with. She didn't know how long he'd been at the hospital but she knew it was a long time. He rarely came out of his room, which explained why Stiles had only seen him twice in three weeks.

He was a solitary kind of guy, didn't talk much around people and never joined any group activities. Pretty much stayed in his room and read. Stiles swore to the high heavens that he did more than read if he was maintaining a body like that, but that was besides the point. And Lydia had smacked him for suggesting it. She immediately made him feel like a complete ass hat afterwards by telling him exactly why Derek was there in the first place.

A few years back, Derek had met someone special in his life. Young love, totally infatuated. He was dead to the world except this woman who'd stolen his heart. Unfortunately for him, she was a money grubbing sociopath who just wanted him for his family's money. And when things started to go south for them as a couple, she set Derek's house on fire with his family still inside. Stiles felt sick to his stomach.

Lydia sighed and told him that after the fire the only family Derek had left was his older sister and an uncle left permanently hospitalised on life support.

He'd been arrested a few times but never charged with anything serious, nothing their inheritance couldn't bail him out for anyway. They were just charges relating to public drunkenness, disturbances, getting into fights while drunk and the like.

Stiles fidgeted and started to pick at the new bandage on his wrist.

To top it all off. Laura, Derek's sister, had been murdered two years back. That was his breaking point that brought him here.

Derek was diagnosed with severe PTSD which lead to nightmares and violent tendencies. He had chronic depression and mood swings which had a few obvious triggers. He could go days in a perfectly tolerable mood, then take a swing at a doctor. It was like he was a dormant volcano, ready to explode at any given time. Stiles swore his heart was bleeding.

He gripped his wrist tightly to keep from picking at the bandage. No wonder Derek looked at him like he was pathetic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many different nicknames can you give Derek?


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles hit his one month at the hospital with a grimace. He woke up that morning wanting to jump out the fucking window. It was a Saturday so he'd be suffering through another boring afternoon of arts and crafts. He threw a forearm over his eyes and groaned, not wanting to get up. Screw the sunny morning, screw microwaved eggs. He wanted junk food and coffee.

Scott was already up and out of bed. Stiles could hear him moving around the room, trying to be quiet. Without having to open his eyes or move his arm, Stiles said in a dry tone,

“Can I have breakfast in bed? Cuz they do deliver.” He felt his foot get swatted.

“Come on, get up. You can't stay in bed all your life.”

“Oh, I greatly beg to differ, buddy.”

Stiles got up but he wasn't changing for anyone. He'd been wearing the same yellow t-shirt for the passed three days and the same jean shorts for two. Who did he have to look nice for anyway? Scott argued that getting up and getting dressed was for himself, to feel better, but Stiles blew that idea off. He padded his bare feet down the hallway behind his friend and they found a seat together at an empty table.

Without much warning or invitation, not the she needed one, Lydia slapped her hand down on the table in front of them. She looked at them and pointed at Scott. “Move over one seat,” she ordered. Scott didn't argue it her. It was just easier to slide into the next chair over.

Lydia had become a new reoccurring part of the day, for the both of them. It almost made Stiles feel like he had friends again. It was nice.

“Morning, beautiful.” Stiles greeted, trying to sound cheery. It was really hard to find energy or will power to express emotion while on whatever meds he'd been taking. Sure he didn't breakdown into tears or feel extremely sad, but he also couldn't get excited or feel any potentially happy emotions. It was counter productive and he was going to have words with Deaton the next time he saw the guy.

“Good morning to you too,” Lydia said when satisfied with where everyone was sitting. She had a weird knowing smirk on her face today that made Stiles feel a little unsure of what was going on. He looked at her, brows scrunched together in confusion. She just rolled her eyes in return.

“Morning, everyone,” came Parrish's voice from just a few feet off. He walked up to their table looking way too happy for so early in the morning. Well, early in Stiles' opinion. It was technically half passed eight. Stiles turned to look at the guy and suddenly felt himself go pale.

Tagging along behind Parrish was Mr. Yes Please Daddy. Stiles mentally corrected himself. The walking sex doll had a name. His name was Derek. He had to stop objectifying him, it was a little extreme and very inappropriate now that he knew more about him.

Stiles started to bounce his foot, making the table shake under his elbows. Why was Derek here? Derek ate in his room. Things didn't change spontaneously like this out of no where. What the hell! He felt a weight on his leg and looked down quickly. Scott's hand was firmly planted on his kneecap, trying to hold his leg still and put an end to the nervous bouncing. _Thank you, Scott._

“Lydia you know, Derek.” Parrish introduced the guy. Derek stopped short behind him, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He still looked bed ruffled and tired like he too had been dragged into the rec room against his will. His stubble was a bit longer than it was when Stiles saw him last. It looked so good on him, Stiles decided. “I hope you don't mind Derek sitting with you today to eat.”

“Not at all,” Lydia beamed. She apparently knew about this a head of time and chose not to say anything to Stiles about it. For obvious reasons. The bitch. For some reason, Lydia knew everything about everyone here.

“Derek, this is Scott and Stiles,” Parrish continued, setting a supportive hand on Derek's shoulder. The touch went eyed by the guy in a way that left Stiles surprised Parrish was left with a hand, that it wasn't bitten off or something. Derek clearly valued personal space, but he said nothing about it. “Have a seat and socialize a bit. Breakfast will be out shortly.”

Derek dropped down into the empty chair, filling in the empty side to their little square table. He leant back, turning a bit away from the group, long legs sprawled out to the side. He looked like a sulking teenager with his scowl and bored looking outer shell. Stiles found it kind of cute actually. The guy looked pissed off and ready to snap but his clear hazel eyes gave off just how damaged and in need of people he really was.

The colour came back to Stiles' face tenfold and he hid the blush by leaning into his palm. He swore internally and looked at Scott. There was an unsure expression on his friend's face but he was just going along with life right now. It was just breakfast after all. Neither of them looked at Lydia, who no doubt was being a smug little shit. Stiles would bet every breakfast muffin in the place that she volunteered to eat with Derek because she knew it'd drive him insane.

It was very egotistical of him to think so, but he literally felt paranoid and crazy with Derek sitting inches away from him. His heart was pounding in his ears and he knew on some subsonic level Derek could heart it beating frantically away in his chest. He might not be able to die from embarrassment but he was thinking he might go into cardiac arrest.

The uncomfortable silence was actually a blessing because if he didn't say anything stupid yet. Stiles couldn't humiliate himself if he didn't talk. In theory. Breakfast was brought to them by the volunteers and once again the sight of soft, soggy toast and eggs made Stiles whine. He sighed and stabbed them with his fork. At least there were fruit cups and muffins to go with his numbing medication.

Scott covered his plate in excessive amounts of ketchup while Lydia rearrange her food until there was an acceptable order for it to be eaten in. Stiles sighed and tore the top off a dry bran and raisin muffin. It tasted bland but otherwise, passable for a muffin especially when it was slathered in fake butter.

“Sorry it's not pancakes, Stiles.” Scott offered up to hopefully lighten the tension.

“Yeah, that'd be great. Homemade, from scratch...” Stiles fantasized about the buttermilk pancakes his dad would make on his days off. Stacked high with butter and syrup. Sometimes they would add chocolate chips or blueberries. Stiles missed that. He gave a look to the paper cup with three pills sitting at the bottom. At least those would make him miss it a little less.

“Sounds good."

Stiles' attention shot over to Derek. The guy wasn't really looking at any of them, focused on his own food. But he was paying attention to their little back and forth conversation.

“Dad and I would make pancakes on his days off... They're the best,” Stiles told him. His lip twitched a little into something resembling a smile. “Dad always looked for excuses to cook bacon when he shouldn't. Then we'd coat everything in syrup, cinnamon, some time whipped cream.”

Lydia moved her food around again. “I always like sushi,” she added in.

Scott looked up with a mouthful of scrabbled eggs. “Pizza,” he said. “I want pizza so bad.”

Stiles gave a throaty chuckle and agreed, “pizza would be awesome.”

Derek only hummed in acknowledgement. Stiles licked his lips and looked at him. “What about you?” he asked.

Derek didn't move but his eyes shot to the side to look at Stiles. The soft hazel made his stomach flip upside down. He didn't really expect him to answer with how long he remained quiet, but he knew for now that he liked pancakes. Stiles wished he could serve Derek homemade pancakes on a sunny, cozy morning where they could cuddle and be cute. _Thanks relationship day dream..._

Derek raised a brow. He thought for a minute then in a low voice said, “strawberry rhubarb cobbler.”

“Holy shit,” Stile blurted, crumbs flying out of his mouth. “That sounds so good.”

His sudden perked interest got him a strange look from all three at the table, but it was just the thing to break the weird uncertainty around them. They all chuckled and continued to talk over breakfast. Scott and Stiles went back to their former prattling about video games or movies they want to see. Lydia talked about shopping and the desire to get a proper manicure. She reached over the table and scold Stiles on how poorly kept his nails were. He didn't quite understand but he just nodded and agreed with her.

Stiles looked at Derek and felt himself smile. The guy was staring at him, his eyebrows shooting up on his forehead. It was a funny look on him. So much so that Stiles couldn't stop himself from showing teeth as he smiled and laughed, cheeks flushed pink.

The food went pretty much ignored after that. As did the little paper cup of pill Stiles neglected to take.

 

.

 

Stiles didn't want to say anything, didn't want to jinx whatever luck he was having. Parrish had let slip that Derek needed to socialize more, as part of his therapy, or whatever was going on with him. But the guy started to come around more often and Stiles couldn't have been more eager about the idea if he tried.

He was there at almost every meal, eating with Scott, himself, and Lydia more often than not. He'd attended one arts and crafts day which wasn't a total disaster. And instead of taking a book back to his room like normal, Stiles some times found Derek reading in the rec room. Not that he'd admit to stalking the guy or anything. Because he wasn't. They just happened to be in the same room at the same time. Shut up.

Derek still frowned over everything but... you know, baby steps.

Stiles found Derek one day in the rec room. Scott was in a counselling session so he needed to pass time in other ways.

Derek was back lit by the afternoon sun, sitting in one of the hard, uncomfortable armchairs. A book was held up in front of him looking to be about half read already. He looked relaxed and calm sitting by himself. So of course, Stiles had to walk over to him. It was like an uncontrollable impulse. He couldn't help but be drawn to Derek. There was something about the him that made Stiles weak in the knees and desperate for attention. It probably wasn't healthy.

He took a seat in the next chair over trying not to disturb Derek's reading. But he did lean over the arm rest trying to see over his shoulder and sneak a peak at the book. Stiles said nothing until Derek looked up on his own accord, feeling that someone was there. When he saw it was Stiles, he politely nodded. That was about all he usually offered. It was fine, perfect actually.

“Whacha readin'?” Stiles cooed, practically laying over the armrest, bringing his face a few inched away from Derek's shoulder. He must have been sitting in the sun for a long time because his forest green henley was radiating a pleasant heat.

“Pride and Prejudice,” Derek answered.

Stiles couldn't tell if his tone was irritated or if he was just distracted. He sunk back into the chair he was sitting in. He had his own book with him that he was probably going to switch out for another before he sat down, but he was there and found himself too lazy to get back up. The hospital had little to read given the amount of books they had. Most of what was there were donated and selected because nothing 'bad' was in them. So, middle school library quality, boring shit. Lots of young adult fiction that was so below Stiles reading level it was ridiculous.

But he opened to where he left off reading The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe – in his opinion the only decent Narnia book worth reading, unless you like religious metaphors being shoehorned down your throat ever two sentences. He got as comfortable as possible, curling his legs up into the chair and went back to reading about Jesus Lion, four dying children, and what was essentially purgatory: Spoiler Alert.

“Don't let me interrupt you then, Mr. Darcy,” Stiles said making himself snicker. If it got him a weird look he was fine with it. At least he found it amusing. The weird huff he heard was not what he expected though. He looked at Derek curiously and found the guy with the last hint of a smile on his mouth. Stiles felt his heart flutter away in his chest.

The two sat together and read quietly. It felt so easy and natural to be there. Stiles leaned on the armrest closest to Derek just so he could feel him there. It was calming in ways that it shouldn't have been. Derek said nothing about how close he was sitting and if Stiles didn't move, maybe he never would.

Actually, by the time dinner came around, neither mentioned anything about how their shoulders were brushing as they leaned together over the side of the chairs.

 

.

 

Days turned to weeks and Stiles kept discretely hiding his medication. He didn't want it. Fuck, he didn't want it. Even though he was told to take it, he'd slip it into the pocket of his shorts to flush later. He had a good thing going for him in the limited world that was their hospital wing. He had a genuine friend in Scott. Lydia was an odd girl but he liked her all the same – even when she yelled at him for putting something away incorrectly then rolled her eyes and did it for him. Those two were like the friends he'd never had in school but always wanted.

Parrish was even a cool dude once Stiles had gotten to know him a little more. Though it was kind of weird how close he and Lydia were some days. Stiles didn't want to think about what rules they were potentially breaking behind everyone's back.

Then there was Derek. Stiles really couldn't express how he felt about him. He didn't even try. A crush he could admit to but even then the word didn't seem to include everything he was feeling. Stiles looked forward to seeing Derek almost daily. They could talk. It felt easy when it was just the two of them. Some days Derek was just a silent addition to their table at meal time. Where others, he made an effort to contribute to conversation. The guy's social anxieties were definitely improving and Stiles was really proud of him.

Pride turned to legitimate shock when visiting hours started one day and Derek had – not one, but two – people come to see him. Stiles watched from afar with a large happy grin because of how familiar the three were with one another. Derek was actually smiling, and it was the most handsome thing Stiles had ever seen in his life. He wanted to see it every day from here on out. He wanted to be a part of it, cause it himself and plant a kiss to it.

The two sitting across from Derek were obvious a thing, if the way the blonde girl kept touching on the dude said anything about it. Mr. Just as Stoic as Derek, hardly seemed to notice all the little touches, probably being used to it by this point in his life, or he liked it too much to say anything about it. He said something quietly though and the two beside him cracked up.

If Stiles wasn't waiting for someone himself, he'd go over and impose on the their conversation, because he wanted to so bad. Saddle up beside Derek and force himself into the little happy circle.

He thought about it anyway, until his name was called. Stiles turned to see Parrish and his dad walking over toward him. There was a relieved but tense look on his dad's face that never seemed to ebb for the entirety of his visit. They both had a long unhappy relationship with hospitals in general so the feeling was completely understandable. But no matter the circumstance or reasoning, it wasn't a fun thing to see all the time. Stiles had just learned to ignore it by now.

“Hey, son. How're you feeling?” his dad asked as he swooped in for a hug. His arms wrapped tightly around Stiles, barely giving him enough room to breathe. It felt great, even with the lack of oxygen. Stiles gave him a tight hug back and buried his face into his dad's shoulder where it was warm and comforting. For once John wasn't dressed in his sheriff's uniform. He was wearing a soft, freshly laundered flannel and jeans. It smelt like the lavender laundry soap they always used. Stiles could smell his dad's after shave mixed in to the collar. He could smell home. If he closed his eyes, he felt as if he could pretend they were standing in their living room.

“Hey, dad.” Stiles choked on a happy sob. He'd missed his dad so much. “I'm doing okay. Good actually, real good.”

“That's great to hear.”

They took a seat at an empty table. While not much happens in the run of a day, Stiles filled his dad in on what had been going on since the last time he visited. He told him about Melissa again and about how he wished they'd visit on the same day so they could meet. John laughed at him and repeatedly told Stiles that he did not do blind dates. Stiles laughed but made no promised for the future.

There were a few things he neglected to say, like how he'd been off his medication for a while and not because the doctors thought it was a good idea. Also that he's developed a crush on another patient with a history of physical aggression and is probably more broken than anyone else he'd ever met. None of that would sit well with his dad. He knew that. And today wasn't a day he wanted to be lectured about the importance of healthy relationships and how you can't 'fix' people.

But Stiles didn't want to 'fix' Derek. He didn't want to be Derek's sole reason to exist, or for him to be dependent on him. Like wise, he didn't want to stake his happiness on Derek. That was a responsibility that belonged to only himself. And he wasn't exactly the best at maintaining that responsibility. He just wanted something, anything, so badly. As selfish as it was. Even if it was naive and unhealthy. Stiles wanted Derek in every way.

Stiles rubbed his hands together. He still had on his bandage but didn't feel too ashamed of it anymore. It wasn't really there for any other reason than to keep his busy fingers off what was left of his scabs. The last time a nurse pulled off the tape – which, ouch! – the cut was almost healed, and what he'd clawed off prior was scabbed again. Another week or so and it'd just be a gross white scar that would annoy him for the rest of his life. It'd be a glaring reminder of his failures. And while Stiles wanted to jump the nurses station, grab a pair of scissors and reopen the damn wound, only deeper and with more permanent results – the important thing was that he didn't do it. Which if you asked a doctor, was an improvement.

“So, how's work been?” Stiles asked so he could stop talking about himself. “Have you been eating properly, or stuffing your self on drive-thru and delivery?”

“Excuse you, but I can cook for myself.”

“So you've been barbecuing burgers and hot dogs every night.”

As his dad talked, Stiles stole glances over to Derek's table. The three friends were still talking away about something engaging. Stiles can't say he'd ever seen Derek talk so much in the short time they'd known each other. It was hard not to be jealous. Derek's body language was open and comfortable. He wasn't like that any other time.

The blonde looked up, just brushing her hair back, but their eyes met from across the room. It only lasted a second before Stiles tore his gaze back to his dad, but he felt like she knew everything from that one look. John was still talking and thankfully hadn't noticed his distraction. Stiles nodded and hummed.

He lasted maybe five seconds before his attention drifted back over to the other table. Everything seemed normal. Maybe he had imagined it all out of jealousy or paranoia. But the blonde was smiling away and leaned over toward Derek. She said something to him. Her bright red lips peeled back very satisfied and she laughed, clapping her hands together.

Derek's expression immediately turned sour, brows knitting together, jaw set. His head turned, and he looked directly at Stiles, catching him staring back. For a minute they just continued to stare. Derek's frown wavered. His elbows came up to plant themselves on the table and he buried his face, chin to nose, into his balled up fists.

He had no idea what the expression on his face meant but Stiles was struck dumb. He blinked rapidly and looked away feeling his face grow hot. When he he did, Stiles found his dad looking at him curiously.

“Son, you there?” his dad asked reaching across to lightly squeeze his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice suddenly dry. “Maybe I just need some water. No, you know what, I'm good. I'm here.” Stiles drummed his knuckled on the table top. He'd been developing a weird arrangement of nervous ticks lately which were probably a bad sign. He stilled his fingers when he noticed them tapping.

“That's good. So...” John trailed off. “Have they said anything to you about how you're doing?”

Stiles assumed this was his dad asking if he was getting the big old stamp of approval to leave. Honestly, he didn't know. He wasn't sure if he was ready to leave yet, even if they said he would be able to function on his own. When you took the friends out of the picture, the medication, the constant support system put into place to make sure he didn't hang himself – Stiles wasn't sure if he wouldn't try again.

Stiles still felt terribly for what he'd already put his dad through. He loved his dad so much. He wanted to be there at home with him. He did want to try and be better for him. But a little voice inside of him told him he'd inevitably mess it all up and wind up right back here, or dead. It scared him to think about.

“Well...” he didn't want to lie. “I'm...”

“It's ok, Stiles. Take as long as you need.”

 

.

 

Time passed so differently inside the hospital. Routine was impossible to get away from. Some days dragged on forever while others flew by. July had passed and August was getting on day by day. The summer was going to end and Stiles would have been stuck inside for the entirety of it. This was way different from the one summer he spent two months locked in his room playing World of Warcraft. At least that was intentional solitude.

This was far more slow and boring. At least there was air conditioning so they weren't all sweating to death. Which would be interesting if Stiles let himself think about that kind of thing for too long. He didn't though, not really.

Stiles was actually feeling better, especially off his medication. Sue him, but he liked to have emotions, some times even the bad ones.

One afternoon, Stiles was sitting on his bed waiting for Scott to get back from his therapy session. He shuffled and then reshuffled a deck of playing cards, trying to do fancy tricks and impressing only himself. He played solitaire until he couldn't handle it, then he'd shuffle the cards again. It was a long hour.

The plan was an evening of poker, using soda crackers as betting tokens. They've been saving up their individual packets for days all for this. It was hard not to get munchy and snack on them some times, but they knew it'd be worth it.

Stiles had thought about asking Derek to come play with them. That never happened though. He got too embarrassed and immediately figured the offer would be rejected. So he never bothered to ask. Things had been weird between them for a while. Weirder than normal and Stiles could pin point every single thing going on. Derek still came out of his room and would sit with them during meals, but there was something in the way they made eye contact that felt dismissive. They still could be found reading together, but Derek was leaning away from him now like he didn't want to give Stiles an opportunity to touch him.

They didn't talk any more. That was the main difference that bugged Stiles and would ultimately break his heart. Stiles liked to interrupt Derek while he read to try and talk him into a game of scrabble, followed by an hour of asking him way too personal questions and answering them himself if Derek wouldn't. Stiles at one point made up a back story for him since he refuse to share. Not about why he was at the hospital, they had covered that even though Lydia told him. But one day out of total boredom, Stiles gave Derek some superhero level backstory, gave him a make believe job and everything.

Stiles was kind of bitter about how they were drifting apart. Because ever since Derek was visited by his friends, he's felt ignored and avoided. He blamed himself mostly, thinking he creeped Derek out. But then his friend had to go pointing it out, which she probably did. Thanks bimbo blonde for that. Stiles whined and pouted. Of course, Derek thought he was pathetic kid with a crush. How could he not? They guy probably never saw them as friends or anything else.

 _Nope! No more of that._ Stiles got everything ready for Scott to come back for their game. His Derek related thoughts weren't going to ruin his night like that.

Thank God when Scott did get back. It gave something for Stiles to focus on besides his crippling self doubt and miserable pinning over an older man.

“Scotty, you're late for our game. What took you so long?” Stiles asked, impatiently dealing out their card.

“Sorry, I got caught up talking with Deaton. There's so much-ugh! It's so great. It's great news. Holy crap.”

Stiles stopped dealing his hand. He paused and fiddled with a single card. “Let me guess, it's great?”

“Ha-ha! Funny.” Scott kicked off the crappy hospital shoes and pounced onto Stiles bed. Cards scattered hazardously and a few sailed onto the floor. Stiles gave him a very unimpressed look, gesturing to the ones that fell. “Sorry, my bad.”

“Must be something good if you're so worked up, damn.” He went back to reshuffling and dealing while Scott piked up the cards that went on the floor. He had promised not to cheat this time around but he was thinking about it now as punishment for being late and messing up his perfect set up. “Dude, you going to tell me or what? You're dragging out the anticipation.”

“We scheduled my final assessment and exit interview. I'm going to get to go home. How cool is that? Right in time for enrolment. I'll start school in September.” Scott was over the moon. He was smiling from ear to ear and everything he said had a gentle chuckle behind it.

Stiles didn't know what to say to this sudden good new from his new friend. He expected it to happen sooner or later but he was hoping for later, much, much later. It was obviously selfish of him, to want Scott to stay. Scott was probably the most adjusted and well off person he'd ever met, in or out of the damned hospital. There was no question in his mind that he'd pass all tests and be walking free by the end of summer. He deserved it after everything he'd put up with too. Stiles should be happy for the guy. But he wasn't, not really.

He was jealous. He was bitter. He wanted to tell him to go fuck himself for betraying him and leaving. Stiles looked down at his cards and forced his thin smile with his lips pressed tightly together. “Damn, man. That's awesome.” It was apparent Scott was far too thrilled to notice the anger lacing his voice because he didn't say anything about it. “You're going to do great.”

His hands trembled and threatened to drop the cards again. Stiles knew he shouldn't take it out on Scott for getting better, that he shouldn't be resentful. It wasn't a contest or a race to see who could get out first. He knew that. But the little anxious voice in the back of his head told him that once Scott left and went home, he'd forget all about Stiles. Their friendship would come to an anti-climactic end and they'd never say another word to one another. All because Stiles was such an unmemorable, sad loser who didn't deserve friends.

“Thanks, dude.” Scott lightly punched his shoulder with a playful laugh. “I'll come visit and bring more of mom's cookies.”

 _Sure you will..._ “Sounds perfect.” Stiles answered.

Scott opened the crackers wrapped in their packs of two. He tossed them onto the bed between them to place his bet. “So, how are you doing with Deaton? I saw you laughing in group therapy so don't say it's not helping.”

“Wasn't going to,” Stiles said, matching his bet. “It's doing... fine. I guess. I'm fine.”

They played their hand. Stiles let Scott win this round to show he wasn't mad even though he really was.

 

.

 

“How have you been feeling lately, Stiles?” Dr. Deaton asked. He crossed his legs and relaxed back into his chair as he usually did after the first few minutes of their sessions. “Anything you want to bring up today?”

Stiles shrugged and slouched. “No.”

He didn't feel much like talking today. It wouldn't be the first time they sat for an hour just staring at the floor. It also didn't help that that morning at breakfast he took all his pills like he was suppose expected to, although he more or less avoided the food. Lunch went pretty well the same. So now his body was running on no sleep, no food, and heavy medication. It was not a good combination and left him feeling kind of sick to his stomach. It was an odd trade off from emotional stress.

“Did you get much sleep last night?” Deaton asked after a good minute or two of waiting. He didn't need to ask. It was obvious by the dark circled and bags under Stiles' eyes that he hadn't slept, not just last night but a few nights now. Stiles guessed this was his way of trying to bait him into conversation.

The truth was, ever since Scott said he was leaving, Stiles hadn't slept much at all. A few hours here and there. A quick nap while trying to read in the rec room. Turns out Derek's shoulder was the world's best pillow but don't tell him. He might realize that he's being used like a bed and move away from him. Stiles couldn't take much more rejection right now.

Stiles fought off a yawn thinking about how tired he actually was. “A bit.” He didn't see it as that big of a deal. He'd been suffering with insomnia since his mom had died. That was years ago now. So yea, he could take a few nights of restless sleep.

“You don't sleep much now?”

“Never have.”

They were quiet for another twenty minutes. Stiles watched the clock move so he knew exactly how long they were sitting in silence. The second hand ticked along number by number. By now he could tell the clock was slow by at least a minute and a half. He chewed his lip wanting the hour to be up already.

But then what? Even after the session was up, what would he have to go do? He could try, and fail, to sleep. Dinner would be soon, so he could eat – maybe. Stiles didn't feel like he had much of an appetite. So, he'd probably skip dinner. There was the half read book in his room, but he didn't have the energy or interest to pick it up right now. Maybe Scott wanted to play cards again. No, Stiles didn't want to do that either.

Honestly, he didn't want to see Scott at all. The passed few days just seeing the guy's face made him angry. Scott was still obliviously running around radiating sunshine from his ass and it irritated Stiles to all hell. He wanted him to hurry up and leave already. He wanted to be left alone. Stiles let his head fall back and he stared at the ceiling.

“Scott's leaving,” he sighed.

“I see.” Deaton didn't confirm or deny it, but Stiles knew it was true. There was no way that they'd be keeping Scott any longer than another week, tops.

Lydia was probably going to start ignoring him once Scott was gone too. It'd be too much of a change for her to handle. Then Derek would completely treat him like he was invisible. They would all leave him.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fuck him.” Stiles blinked a few times feeling his eyes dry out. It burned a bit. “He can go ahead and leave. Whatever.”

“Really?”

“Yeah...” Stiles felt tears well up in his eyes, clinging to his lashes in heavy drops. As he blinked a few tears were set free to roll back over his temples and dampened his hair line. “Everyone leaves eventually. He's no different.”

“You don't believe he'd come visit you?”

“No,” he snorted.

Stiles chose not to say anything further the rest of the hour. He silently cried, letting his tears fall and nose drip. He was a red, blubbering mess by the time he walked out of the office. A nearby nurse gave him all the tissues he could ever want and Stiles rubbed at his face and blew his nose until a dozen or more tissues were shredded and wet. His eyes were puffy and his hair was unattractively mussed but he didn't care.

The nurse walked him back to the rec room before letting him go off on his own. Stiles kept his head down, focused on his shoes. They still pinched his toes in weird spots, rubbing and causing blisters even through socks. He honestly never wanted to wear them again. Stiles wanted to kick them off and throw them as far as he could so he'd never have to see them. He felt the nurse pat him on the back before leaving.

The rec room was relatively empty despite the time of day. It was odd to only see a handful of people sitting around the large space. Games were abandoned on tables, books were on the floor. People apparently had better things to do today than socialize. Stiles could understand that. He was about to head for his room to bury himself under the covers until he saw a familiar body standing by the bookshelf. He saw the heaven blessed sweatpants and tight t-shirt covering up tanned skin. Damn...

Stiles' body moved on its own accord, feet dragging and heels scuffing over the tiles. He wanted to be alone, wanted to crawl into a corner and wait for death. His chest felt hollow and useless. Stiles wanted so badly for that nothingness to swallow him whole so he didn't have to deal with it.

Before he knew it, Stiles was across the room. His head dropped, landing gently against Derek's shoulder. He sighed and huffed with one last defeated sob. Tears were threatening to form in his eyes again but he tried to keep them at bay. He didn't want to cry like a toddler in front of the guy but there was a comfort in being around him that made Stiles feel like he didn't have to hide it.

Derek's body was a solid and warm. It felt nice to lean on, like it could keep him upright and together. It was probably all a lie he was telling himself but in his brief moment of self recognized need for human contact, Stiles let himself believe Derek cared enough about him to provide a leaning post for a little while. He expected the arm to pull away, and he was about to whine until it was wrapped around his shoulders.

Instead of having a hard shoulder to rest his head on, Stiles found his cheek nestled against Derek's collar bone, cradled in the groove of his neck. Stiles let out a trembling breath and tried to blink through the tears but some escaped, rolling down his cheeks to soak into the soft fabric he was rubbing his face into. He mumbled and tried to apologize for getting Derek's shirt wet but it came out as a mess of incoherence blithering. Derek didn't seem to care at all. His other arm came around to engulf Stiles in a full on tight hug.

While he couldn't bring himself to hug back, Stiles couldn't stop himself from fisting at Derek's shirt around his rib case. He wasn't asked about anything, so Stiles said nothing and just enjoyed Derek quietly holding him. It was safe there.

Stiles couldn't be more grateful so he offered out in a timid voice, “Scott's leaving...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 <3


	5. Chapter 5

The day Scott got approved to go was a shitty day for Stiles. He skipped breakfast so he could sulk in bed all morning. Nothing was said between them as Stile watched Scott pack his clothes into a bag. There was a slight guilty expression on his face that only added to the belief that Scott was leaving in order to rid himself of Stiles. Like him getting better and moving on with his life was all an elaborate 'fuck you' directed at him, or something. It wan incredibly shallow and ridiculous to think that. Scott had worked hard to get where he was now. Stiles could understand that. He just didn't want to admit it.

  
Scott deserved everything going for him and thinking anything but left Stiles with a sour taste in his mouth. But he was doing a good job at washing it down with egotistical anger. Stiles dragged himself from bed to follow Scott to the rec room. He stayed to the back as his friend was rushed by volunteers and nurses, being given hugs and praise. Stiles watched on, glaring from the back of the group.

  
Stiles clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. Fuck Scott and his good mood. He crossed his arms and turned to leave the rec room in a huff. He wanted to stomp his feet and make a scene, because apparently he was a fucking three year old. Stiles would have made it more than a few feet if his upper arm wasn't suddenly grabbed, stopping him mid step.

  
“You should be happy for him. He's your friend.”

  
Stiles turned with a frown, ready to give a piece of his mind to Derek's judgemental tone. He hadn't noticed the guy join the group before, but he shouldn't have been too surprised. Derek had been showing up randomly lately, taking on Stiles' own habit of interrupting other people's privacy. Stiles didn't dislike seeing Derek so much, however it was weird.

  
“I-uh... whatever,” Stiles stammered, not even trying to wrestle his arm out of Derek's grip. It wasn't like he was being held tightly, but he had a feeling the hand wasn't going anywhere.

  
“He's your friend.” Derek repeated. His frown gave off a disapproving vibe that made Stiles want to smack him. He didn't need Derek of all people judging him. “Don't be a little shit. I know you're upset to lose him, but he's worked for this. Think about someone other than yourself for a change.”

  
Okay, Stiles wasn't expecting that. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn't think of anything at all. Obvious what was said was no worse than anything he'd ever told himself but it was the first time in a while that someone directly called him on his behaviour. Generally, nurses and therapists were less inclined to point out one's bullshit, too afraid it'd cause some kind of mental breakdown in their patients. So naturally, he was struck a little speechless.

  
Stiles felt a little more obliged to listen with the way Derek was glaring down at him. He blinked, not quite sure how to react.  
“He...I...” Stiles tried but was cut off.

  
“No. He deserves this. Don't ruin it for him.”

  
Stiles anger did not fade off enough, no matter how terrible he felt. He denied it all and covered it up by biting out, “what do you care? You only hang around because you have to.”

  
The look on Derek's face shifted through multiple unreadable expressions in the span of a split second. His eyebrows raised then lowered into a frown. His lip twitched. The hand that had only been holding Stiles' arm tightened into a firm grip that bordered on painful.

  
Stiles felt his stomach drop, not because he was scared but because he didn't mean to hurt Derek in anyway, or Scott for that matter. He sunk in on himself, shoulders bunching up by his ears. “I'm sorry...” he croaked out, looking down at their feet. There was something about his bare toes that were very interesting all of a sudden. Stiles wiggled them and curled them under for protection.

  
The tension between them was rising uncomfortably, threatening to snap. Stiles could taste it on the air and he swallowed.

  
“Derek,” Parrish approached them cautiously. There was a warning tone to his voice that Stiles recognized all too well. “Maybe Stiles would like his arm back now. Don't you think?”

  
Parrish eyed the way Derek's hand grabbed onto Stiles' arm. The grip tightened briefly, fingers twitching, not wanting to let go at first. It couldn't have been an ideal scene to come across, for either of them. Honestly, Stiles wanted to protest and defend Derek. He wanted to say they were fine, that they were just talking, but he didn't get the chance. Derek ripped his hand away and took a step back.

  
Parrish filled in the space Derek created, moving closer to Stiles. He put a gentle hand on the teen's back. It made light circles, rubbing between his shoulder blades.

  
“Why don't we all take a bit of a breather,” Parrish said. “You alright, Stiles?”

  
Stiles bit his tongue hard and nodded. “Yeah... I'm sorry.”

  
“Derek? Want to explain what happened?” Parrish asked, turning his accusing stare away from Stiles.

  
“It was my fault.” The heavy sigh left Derek as he accepted the blame without prompt.

  
Stiles looked up at him, not understanding. The frown that had been permanently plastered all over Derek's face was replaced by a self hating grimace that made Stiles immediately worry. It wasn't an expression that sat well with him. He didn't want Derek to take the blame for himself being an ass hole. Allowed to or not, Stiles moved away from Parrish and into Derek's downcast line of sight.

  
“Derek, it's fine. I'm fine.” He put a sympathetic hand to his and hooks their fingers. It was only gentle. If Derek wanted, he could slip away without resistance, but he let his hand be held.

  
“Stiles, don't bother...” Derek lightly argued.

  
“I think it's time for both of you to head back to your rooms. Take some time.”

  
Parrish wouldn't physically move Stiles away but he could strongly suggest they separate before things got out of hand one way or another. Derek didn't need to be told twice. He let his hand slip out of Stiles' and without a sideways glance, he silently walked himself toward his hallway and his room.

  
“Der...” Stiles stared after him. He wanted to follow him. I can think of others, Derek... Stiles pressed his lips together tightly, wetting them, then sighing. He looked away, frustrated and confused. Parrish lightly nudged Stiles in the direction of his own hall and away from Derek. Stiles went without much protest, not needing the push but put up with it like he didn't have a choice.

  
After being lead to his room, Stiles threw himself over onto his bed. He rolled onto his back and let his head fall back off the side of the mattress. His legs bent off the other. In a long frustrated groan he wordlessly cursed life and tried to calm down. He would have been able to, if Scott didn't butt in after ten minutes of welcomed peace and quiet.

Okay, he couldn't blame the guy for coming to say goodbye, but it did sting. Stiles kind of wished he'd disappear without trying to end their friendship on good terms, would have been easier.

  
“What are you doing hiding in here?” he asked, lightly poking at Stiles' arm. “Aren't you going to congratulate me too? Come on, Stiles. Dude, say something.”

  
“Congrats, buddy. Couldn't wish this for a nicer guy.” Stiles voice broke. It was honest, not sarcastic at all. He knew Scott was fully deserving of this opportunity and he shouldn't be resentful. Derek was right, he was an jackass for being jealous over all this.

  
“What's wrong?” Scott sat at the foot of his bed looking at Stiles' upside down face.

  
“It's just... you're leaving. I'm going to be alone.” Stiles let it slip out. He didn't want to lie to Scott. They were friends. “And with you gone, I'll literally go out of my freaking mind.”

  
“Stiles, you're not going to be alone.” Scott reached over and poked him in the ribs where he knew Stiles was ticklish. The boy's body immediately folded in half to shield itself from being further tickled. The sudden jerky movement made Scott snort and laugh aloud. Maybe it was mean but it got Stiles' full attention.

  
“What was that for?”

  
“Because you were being dumb.” Scott moved over to Stiles' bed and climbed up. “Dude, I'm going to come see you every week. I'm not leaving you alone like that.”

  
“So what, so I can just be dependant on you-”

  
“No. For support. If you were leaving and I was staying for a while longer, wouldn't you come visit me, wouldn't you?” Scott looked at him, completely serious. Stiles didn't even have to think about it before he answered,

  
“Obviously.” Because he would. “We're bros.”

 

“Best bros,” Scott promised, playfully giving Stiles a punch to the arm. “I'll even bring you pizza.”

 

.

 

Stiles looked at the mostly empty drawer. All of Scott's stuff had been cleared out for a few days, and he still wasn't use to all the extra space. There was so much room now and not enough stuff to fill the holes. Stiles sighed and closed the drawer. No matter how many times he looked in there, Scott's stuff wasn't going to magically manifest. He just had to get over the quiet nights without Scott snorting in his sleep. It would be fine though, Stiles told himself for the billionth time that week hoping that if he said it enough, at some point he'd start to believe it. Scott was off being a well adjusted member of society again and was suppose to go back to high school in a week.

  
Stiles made a face remembering the date. September just started. School would be starting, high school and college. His entire summer was gone and he was still stuck at the hospital. All of his stuff should have been packed away for him to head off for whatever college gave him the most incentive. He was suppose to be doing graduated adult shit. But he wasn't doing anything, and these days Stiles had less and less energy to even care. He didn't even find the motivation to get out of bed. Why bother, when a nurse would just bring him food and whatever else he needed.

  
He didn't have Scott or his dad. Even Derek had recently found other things to do with his time than visit Stiles. He didn't want to take that last part personal but now he was caught in a loop of 'told ya so'. Stiles saw this coming. And if Derek wasn't conveniently hiding, Stiles had half a mind to hunt him down and tell him so.

  
He didn't. If Derek wanted to abandon him too, so be it. He was fine on his own. Stiles could live with that. He wouldn't die over some guy. Probably other things, but not over rejection from some guy he barely knew.

  
Stiles patted down his pockets. He hoped to find a stray pill or something useful to take his mind of things, but there was nothing. The only thing left in the pockets of his jeans was lint. Since Scott left he'd taken whatever pill a doctor shoved into his hands without complaint. They helped for a while, numbing how sad he felt so he could get through the day, but it always wore off. Then he was just alone again, feeling isolated and abandoned. It was hard to remind himself that there were people who loved him and that it would be alright, because they weren't there when he needed them to be.

  
As the effects of his medication worn off, Stiles was got anxious. He fidgeted and walked a lap around the small room. After he grew tired of looking at Scott's old bed and that whole side of the room, Stiles left and walked down the hallway into the shared space of the floor.

  
His feet padded quietly over the tiles. There was a weird atmosphere lingering in the air today. It was like everyone was on a shared level of consciousness. No one seemed to be in a good mood. There weren't even very many people in the rec room. There were a bumping of swinging doors followed by a chorus of hysteric screaming. Stiles looked toward the doors.

  
It was oddly surreal to see others act out exactly how you felt. Stiles kind of wished he could let loose and scream his lungs out. Maybe it would relieve a little stress.

  
Stiles stood planted to the floor. A quick look over to the nurse station told him everyone was busy and wasn't paying attention to those not in immediate need. He felt in need but was unsure of how to ask for help. The nurses probably didn't think his need for human contact would be sufficient to put other work on hold. Maybe it would be best to go back to bed.

  
He took a long breath, held it, then exhaled. He counted to five and breathed again. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.

  
Stiles looked towards the closed, undisturbed door off passed the nurses station toward the third hallway of rooms. One thought came to mind that he had been pushing back for so long, Derek. Derek would probably send him away too, but he needed someone.

  
Stiles turned and slipped around the nurses station. He'd whistle in comedic innocence but they'd ask him what he was up to and would shoo him away. So instead, just to make himself laugh internally, Stiles started to sing the Pink Panther theme in his head. Mission Impossible would have been a good option too but he was in the mood for something more upbeat and jazz.

  
A nurse turned around in her chair, eyes focused on the charts she was currently sorting through. Stiles dropped to the floor and hide behind the counter like he was about to be caught doing something he shouldn't. It was a tad dramatic, but he felt like he shouldn't be there, that he'd get in trouble if seen and stopped. Stiles inched across the floor, backing up toward the set of swinging doors with the hall three plaque.

  
Stiles pushed the door open just enough to poke his nose around. There was no one walking the halls and most of the rooms had their own doors closed. The coast was clear after he did a double check of the nurse's station. Without being seen by any of the nurses or volunteers, Stiles slipped inside. His hand stayed against the crack to act as a bumper when the door tried to bounce back. When it laid flat in his hand, he stopped internally panicking and stood up.

  
Despite how well lit the hallway way, it was bizarrely unsettling. It had the same layout as his own hallway, but it felt different. It was very quiet, so much so that he could clearly hear the light buzzing over head. Stiles could hear the odd voice if he listened closely, even if it was muffled and distorted by closed doors.

  
He stepped forward slowly, taking his time. If he remembered correctly from casual conversation, Derek's room was at the end of the hall. He could stop by. It would be fine. He was only going to say 'hi' and promptly leave when he was inevitably told to go. It wasn't likely that Derek would let him stay for long, if at all.

  
A few of the doors Stiles passed were propped open. Patients sat inside doing just as much as he did in the run of a day. A few were reading, or doing crosswords - haven been given permission to have pencils. That was cool for them.

  
There was even one guy sitting on the floor of his room meditating. Stiles actually stopped to watched for a second, interested and impressed. The guy sat perfectly still, cross legged and head up. His breathing was so even it was hard to tell if he was doing so at all.

  
Stiles knew his ADHD would never allow him to focus like that, on or off medication. He'd tried yoga once. It ended up not being his thing.

  
He kept going, not wanting to interrupt the guy's intense concentration.

  
A few doors down he found Derek's room. The door was open wide and looked unintentionally inviting. Stiles slipped up to the door frame. He didn't knock, just looked inside. Embarrassment and nervousness washed over him and had him wringing his hands into his shirt. He hadn't thought of what to say or anything. He just wanted to see Derek for a second, then he'd go. Stiles filled his lungs and peered around the corner – sounded like a better idea than barrelling through the door like a weirdo.

  
Derek didn't see him yet. His attention was turned down to the pile of books he'd hoarded. Some looked much newer than others, suggesting that someone was sending him outside reading material. No doubt it was that bimbo blonde and her equally attractive boyfriend. Stiles kind of felt for a second that he should stop referring to her that way. She was Derek's friend after all. It was rude.

  
There were a few other things scattered around the room that would occupy someones time, but right now Derek was distracted by another one of his novels, held in one hand. The other tensed and squeezed at a stress ball. One of those beanbag like things filled with sand. He looked relaxed otherwise, sitting back on his bed, a pillow was propped up behind him to provide some cushioning. The blankets had been kicked to the foot of the bed like he was too hot. And maybe he was, even dressed down in a workout shirt and sweatpants with the legs rolled up over his calves. Derek shifted slightly on the bed, bringing one knee up to rest the novel against as he read.

  
Stiles sighed, suddenly very calm. He didn't need Derek to talk to him, or even like him. This was enough. It helped him feel like he had someone around for quiet moral support. Maybe he could just sit in the doorway a while. His thoughts were interrupted suddenly.

  
“Can I help you, Stiles?” Derek asked, turning the page in his book. What, did this guy have super human hearing or something? It made Stiles jump and fidget with embarrassment. His face was likely turning all shades of red too.

  
He stepped into the room awkwardly. “No. Sorry, I didn't want to bother you. You keep reading. It's fine. I can go,” he said. Derek lifted his eyes. “You see, I just... Being in a room alone and all.. You know what that's like. No one to bug you. But you probably like it that way, right? Cuz of that lone wolf thing you got going on.”

  
“Stiles, shut up.”

  
“Yup, shutting up. That's what I'm doing...”

  
Derek sighed and put his novel aside. “I didn't mean that. It's fine. You can talk.”

  
“No, you want me to shut up, I'll shut up.”

  
“I'm not telling you not to talk. I don't care if you talk.”

  
“There's a difference between not caring if I talk and wanting me to talk,” Stiles said softly. “Cuz you wanting me to talk means you're listening to me. Where as not caring is you just tuning me out and, you know, not caring...”

  
“Stiles,” Derek said to get his attention.

  
“Yes... Derek?”

  
“I want you to talk to me.”

  
So, of course, Stiles closed his mouth and said nothing for a second. He walked over hesitantly and took a perched seat at the end of Derek's bed. Technically he hadn't been invited to stay, so he wasn't getting comfortable. He made a few ridiculous hand gestures hoping to convey some sort of meaning through the waving and pointing towards Derek, but it didn't work. It did nothing other than get him some weird looks. Stiles shoved his hands between his knees to hold them still.

  
The bed shift under him a little as Derek moved to sit closer. He stayed turned away from him but knew that if he leaned back at all, he'd smack into Derek's shoulder. They couldn't look at each other in his position but he could feel Derek's body heat through the back of his shirt. It was nice.

  
“You can talk if you want to, Stiles.” Derek said.

  
“Yeah, well... you know what's up anyway.”

  
“Doesn't mean you can't say how you feel about it.”

  
“But you know.”

  
“Stiles-” Derek warned. The way his voice dropped and became gravelly with authority reminded Stiles of when his dad would scold him for doing something he wasn't suppose to. It made him smirk just a fraction thanks to the memory.

  
Stiles moved back onto the bed a little, pressing into Derek's solid arm. He took a breath and said in a 'pointing out the obvious' manner. “Scott's gone. My room's empty. You've been 'gone'. And I'm alone.”

  
“I haven't been gone. I've been here.”

  
“But you stopped-.... I haven't seen you in days. It's the same thing. I mean, did you think I wouldn't notice or something? You just..not coming out to eat with me...”

  
Derek gave a small sigh. “I just needed some time after the whole... anyway.”

  
“I figured. I don't want to make you hangout with me or anything. Just, I guess, being around someone kind of helps me, ya know? Not saying it helps you. Maybe you want to be left alone. I don't know... I thought we were friends and that you were someone who care, without being paid to pretend to care. I mean, you rarely speak so I don't know what goes on in your head, but I feel like you don't judge me too hard. You probably do, but not like, meanly or anything, or else you wouldn't have hung around for so long. Unless you were just around for Scott...”

  
“I wasn't around because of Scott.”

  
Stiles took a long breath again and tried not to bounce or let any other nervous ticks take over. He felt better sitting with Derek. There was probably something to that, and Deaton would call it something along the lines of a support system, or whatever. Stiles didn't care what it was. It helped. Whatever the reason why – it did and that was good enough.

  
“So, we're friends then?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, we're friends.”

“Okay,” he said after a minute. It shouldn't have been surprising, but it was. He was surprised to be corrected of everything he thought about his and Derek's relationship. Derek did care.

  
Stiles felt his chest sink but he wasn't depressed. He actually didn't have a name for how he was feeling. It was weirdly neutral. It was a feeling he hadn't experience in probably years. He knew things were still shitty, but right at the moment, it didn't feel like that mattered. Stiles rolled his head back, just able to make out the profile of Derek's face. He looked calm too, like he could break out into a smile, if he felt so inclined.

  
Stiles still had a vivid memory of Derek's smile. He'd dare say it was knee wobbling, heart flatteringly cute. And if he ever said so, he had a theory Derek would either punch him or glare for days.

  
Stiles burst out into a fit of laughter. He couldn't stop himself. It slipped out of him.

  
The sudden outburst must have startled Derek because he jumped, causing Stiles to fall back across the man's lap in an ungraceful heap. Stiles slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle how loud he was being but didn't stop. His face turned red in embarrassment. At least his hand help hide that a little.

  
Derek looked down at him, brows raised so high they might fuse with his hair. “Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.

  
“Yeah. Yeah I'm good.” Stiles moved his hand and beamed up at Derek, all teeth and red cheeked. Tears brought on by the laughing were starting to roll back into his hair.  
“What was that?”

  
Stiles shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  
They stared at each while he recovered from his laughing fit. His body stopped shaking and relaxing in Derek's lap finding comfort in the kneed jutting into his shoulder somehow. However, even with that and the weird look he was getting from Derek, the smile remained stupidly plastered all over his face as he looked up. It all felt perfect to him. What he was feeling, lying there, he couldn't quite name, but he tried. In all his pondering and relaxing, he decided that he felt content.

  
Derek continued to looked bewildered. It was one of the more funny expression Stiles had seen on him yet. Though personally he was a bigger fan of his sexy throaty laugh and charming smirk.

  
“Hey Der, if I met you in real life, like outside like real people, not saying this isn't real life – and you are people – obviously – but if I ran into you at a coffee shop or if you were a friend's cousin – I don't know... I'd totally stalk the hell out of you.”

  
Derek cracked a smirk and snorted on his own laugh. “What?”

 

.

 

Stiles wouldn't ever say he'd had some sort of revelation. Life really wasn't that magical. There was no shining heavenly light, no angels singing. All his problems didn't just vanish. He'd never claim to be fixed. He knew some things would always be shitty. Life was a struggle. But Stiles felt that it sucked just a little bit less.

  
He had good days and bad days, and some that left him crying in a corner of the rec room. But life went on. It always would. Occasionally his mind drifted and he could elaborately plan a way to end it all. Sometimes it was as simple and stringing himself up with the bed sheets, letting the air seep out his lungs and leave him dead. Others were far more excessive like his plan to raid the nurses' station for anything long and sharp that could be used to give himself a lobotomy.

  
But those days were few and far in between though. Life went on otherwise.

  
September came and went with little to do but Stiles found ways to entertain himself. He'd been given a high school level chemistry study guide by Melissa. The sight of it didn't leave him shaking and sobbing on the floor like he thought it would. Instead he looked through it and decided that he would eventually get to retake the class. He did not stress over it anymore however. He wasn't scared of the idea of retaking the exam. Even if there was a possibility that he may fail.

  
Some days, for no reason what so ever, he'd pop up at the nurses station and quiz them on the table of elements. When someone didn't know an answer, it helped cement the idea that failing wasn't a life or death situation. He felt better then.

  
As the weeks passed and October came around, Scott kept his promise to visit regularly. He came once, sometimes twice a week. Occasionally accompanied by his mom, sometimes Stiles' dad. They brought him cookies, sometimes hot delivery pizza. It was awesome. It really felt like he had a best friend that wouldn't ever abandon him. This made him smile, a lot. Stiles smiled a lot now.

  
By November, Stiles didn't feel alone at all. He might not be at home, but he knew people loved him. He had an extended family that wanted the best for him. They showed it in their own ways, but he knew they did.

  
Stiles spent his free time jokingly forcing Derek to play board games with him and Lydia. They'd frequently let her win but would never tell her that. And if it was just the two if them, they would play a game for hours to see who would get best out of 99. Currently they were scored at checkers, Derek: 45 wins to Stiles: 37 wins. They still have over a dozen games to go to decide the ultimate checkers winner, and while Derek was in the lead Stiles wasn't admitting defeat just yet. This wouldn't happen if they were playing chess. Chess was Stiles' game. Unfortunately the chess board there was missing pieces, so it couldn't be played without borrowing something to stand in for one knight, a rook and a few pawns.

  
They might do that some other day. For now, they played checkers. Stiles would just stick out his tongue and smile at the guy when he lost a round. If he won, for a prize he'd ask an overly personal question about Derek's life. He never had to answer, but he normally did. Stiles now knew his age, birthday, favourite popcorn seasoning, and even his shoe size.

  
One day, he dared to say during a session with Deaton that he was actually kind of happy.

 

.

 

It was raining outside. Not the it mattered when you're stuck indoors anyway, but it was a general observation that had captured Stiles' attention. The sky was grey and cloudy. Rain pattered against the window in heavy waves. Some people were feeling the weather, becoming lazy and choosing to stay in bed. Stiles on the other hand forced Derek into their ninetieth game of checkers. They were close to determining a final winner. There also wasn't much else to do for fun. So, you have to get exited about something.  
They were dangerously close to a stalemate, both having too many king-ed piece on the board to really do much of anything. It didn't help that Derek was still in the lead. Stiles was about to suggest calling the game all together when Derek suddenly said,

  
“They are moving me to an inpatient clinic next month.”

  
Stiles almost dropped his checker piece. He looked at him from across the table with surprised wide eyes. It was good new really. At an inpatient clinic, depending on how well Derek handled himself, he could actually get back to having a life. What were a few nights in a clinic being looked after by nurses when he'd be able to leave during the day. There was freedom in those things. Not like here at the hospital. But it also meant he'd be leaving, and Stiles would be down one more friend. Stiles moved his checkers piece so Derek could overtake and ending their standoff.

  
“Yeah?” he asked quietly. He was not ready for this just yet, at least not to have the ball dropped over checkers. Stiles blinked a few times. He could feel his heart start to hammer away and he held his breath.

  
“Stiles,” Derek breathed out his name sadly. “I didn't know how to tell you...”

  
Stiles guessed this was Derek's way of ending their friendship. It had to end anyway. One of them were going to leave first.

  
“Hey, it's cool. Good on ya, man. You really deserve it. Don't worry about me.” Stiles prompted in a forced yet positive tone. He wanted it to sound at least like he would joke about it later.

  
“I'm not... I don't want you to be upset.”

  
Too late for that. Stiles shrugged and sniffed. “Hey, don't worry about me.”

  
He knew he should be glad the guy was doing well enough that he could finally leave the hospital. And on some level he was, really, honestly, and truly he was. Derek had been at the hospital far too long and deserved a second chance at life. Stiles wanted him to be happy.

  
But he was still upset, because he'd miss Derek a lot. It was different than the way he missed Scott, or how he always missed his dad like a homesick pain. Derek was different and always had been. Stiles cared about him more than he should for a friend.

  
That didn't matter though, as long as Derek was better. He'd suck up the heartache and move on.

  
Serves him right for getting emotionally attached to someone like Derek. God, he felt stupid. Derek was definitely going to leave and never come back. Stiles shook his head and looked away. He'd never been dumped before but he had the idea that this was what it felt like. Sorry imaginary boyfriend, this is where our nonexistent relationship ends. Peace out.

  
“Der, it's good, for you. You'll get back out there and you'll be fine. I know it. It's just...”

  
“I know...” Derek supplied for him. And he did. He knew how Stiles felt about being alone, how he responded with feelings of abandonment and isolation. So, Derek reached over the table and took one of the hands Stiles had laying next to the checker board. His hand was larger than the teen's and calloused from years of work, but it was firm and warm. It held onto Stiles' hand like a lifeline that made him want to melt.

  
Stiles didn't want to let that hand go.

  
He let out a breath, counted to five then inhaled deeply. It took a couple of breaths for him to calm down enough to look back at Derek. Though it still felt like he was going to burst out into tears at any given second. Derek looked sympathetic with his soft eyes watching him closely, the way his brows upturned. There was an openness about the expression too. One that made Stiles feel safe about confessing all the embarrassing shit he kept bottled up inside.

  
His heart flutter despite the sad turn of his stomach. “Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles told him.

  
“Like what?”

  
“Like you care about me.”

  
“I do,” Derek said.

  
Stiles scoffed. “No, you know what I mean, dumb ass. Not like that. I mean stop looking at me like you care about me,” because that made sense. Well, it had in Stiles head, so that's why he said it. He didn't want to confess weird crush feelings for a friend like this, or ever, so he just shook his head and zipped his lip.

  
“You wanna explain it to me?” Derek asked.

  
“Not particularly...”

  
“I won't know unless you tell me.” It was a gentle push but he wasn't being ordered to spill his guts. Derek would drop it if told to. Stiles knew that well enough by now.

  
“No shit, Sherlock. Unless you wanna decipher what I was saying, but I doubt you could,” Stiles said sarcastically. Okay, now he was just being a bit of a jerk by getting all defensive, but he also didn't want to talk about it. He heard Derek huff on a light laugh. It made Stiles pout because he thought he was being laughed at. “Don't do that. Don't laugh at me.”

  
“I'm not,” Derek defended. “I was... amused. I guess.” He paused to pick his words carefully.

  
“Over what?”

  
“The face you made.”

  
“So, you were laughing at my face? It's my face. I can't change that, not without a lot of money and some plastic surgery.”

  
“No. You pouted.”

  
Stiles rolled his eyes and licked his lips. “Whatever,” he breathed.

  
“It was cute,” Derek said.

  
Stiles was blindsided. He wasn't expecting that and felt his face heat up right to the tip of his ears. He probably looked like a tomato, but that didn't matter because Derek was doing that smiling thing that made Stiles feel like jello.

  
“Yeah well, shut up,” he snapped, embarrassed. Stiles gripped hold of Derek's hand tightly because it was still resting over his own. Their fingers hooked and squeezed at each other. His palm was starting to feel all sweaty but he didn't let go. It was too good.

  
"Well, maybe I'll tell you some other time,” Stiles half-promised.

  
“'Nothing time, 'nothing place,” Derek continued. “Am I right?”

  
“Yeah, something like that. Now.... it's your turn, Sourwolf.”

  
Derek snorted over the new addiction to the growing list of nicknames Stiles had given him. It was never ending, because Stiles kept finding new things to love about Derek.


	6. Chapter 6

Deaton passed Stiles a mug. It was hot to touch, containing freshly made herbal tea. Stiles didn't really like tea, but it was warm and the smell of mint made him feel pretty good. He tugged the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands so he could keep from burning himself. Little wisps of steam drifted off into the air in front of his face as he cuddled back into the couch cushions.

Early winter wasn't so bad. California didn't normally get snow so the slight chilled air wasn't completely unbearable. Stiles' dad had brought him pants to wear as the air conditioning turned off at the hospital and he had some long sleeves to wear now. He was warm, even if not amazingly stylish – thanks Lydia for pointing that out.

Stiles got comfortable, kicking his shoes off as he did so. His body curled around the armrest in a ball. He blew the steam across the top of the mug, humming out a chipper, “thanks”.

“So,” Deaton got himself settled as well. The doctor crossed his legs and nursed his own mug of fresh tea. “How are you doing today, Stiles?”

Honestly, he felt fine. Stiles shrugged and sipped at the hot tea. It burned his tongue slightly yet tasted like peppermint. It wasn't like he was avoiding the question. There wasn't much he could say at all, nothing new anyway. He hadn't had a break down since the day Derek left...

And they had been over that incident so many time since then. For good reason. It had been, after all, an eventful day. One Stiles still held a lot of regret over.

Packed up and ready to go Derek came to find Stiles, who was wrapped like a burrito on his bed refusing to move unless given a good reason too. He had knocked before coming in, holding himself in a neutral stance, expression almost unreadable. It took some time but he convinced Stiles to get out of bed even if only for a minute. Though after all that, all they did was stand inside the room, facing each other in silence for probably the better half of ten minutes. Stiles bit his lip and cleared his throat. They just looked at each other, then away, at the floor, the ceiling, then back to each other. A smile passed between them.

They had a full conversation through that brief eye contact and body language alone. Stiles eventually ended their exchange by giving Derek an abruptly and too tight hug. He wanted to cling onto him and never let him go, but he knew he had to. Eventually, Derek pulled away looking adorably flustered, which made him snicker. The two stepped back from one another, ready as they could ever be to say goodbye. But still, neither said a word and Derek bashfully stepped away.

As Derek was heading out into the hall, Stiles had blurted out after him, “See you around, Der. You owe me a checkers rematch.”

He heard Derek's throaty chuckle and he turned to face Stiles, slowly taking small steps backward as he spoke. “I was the winner, Stiles. Let it go.”

“Fine. I'll buy you a coffee as your prize.”

“You're on.”

He knew Derek wouldn't want him to cry over him leaving, he'd want a smile and a send off that gave them good memories. But he'd never know what happened that day, because Stiles believed this was the last time he'd ever see Derek again. So, sfter Stiles was sure Derek was long gone, he went back to bed, curled up into a tight ball under the covers and cried. He cried until he felt hollow and empty. Eventually, no tears would form and he fell asleep, emotionally drained and possibly a tad dehydrated.

He woke up off and on, fighting off the urge to throw up. He stayed like that for hours. The only time Stiles would crawl from his pile of pillows and blankets were to find water or go to the bathroom.

When he could no longer stand laying down, he paced around the small room.

When he could no longer cry, Stiles trashed his room.

He threw his shoes down the hallway.

He screamed.

He broke the dresser.

Nurses came to restrain him.

It wasn't until the following afternoon that Stiles wandered out of his room regretting his behaviour. He felt emotionally sick and physically sore. The clothes he had on were soaked in sweat and drool, and other things. His bare feet padded along the tiles and stopped short of the rec room, not sure if he should be there or not.

Parrish was the first to spot him dragging himself alone the hallway. He came over and offered a warm smile, but waiting for Stiles to make the first move.

“What's for breakfast?” Stiles had asked shyly, scratching at the low hairline on the bass of his neck.

Deaton remembered that day too, so didn't have to ask about it again. It hadn't been too long ago now, a few weeks, not even a month. Since then, Stiles had adjusted to the new routine around him. It had happened with a surprisingly little amount of stress and tears. Everyone was happy to see how calm he was being, though a few nurses were sure it was all a front and that he would crack again. Deaton however believe this behaviour change was genuine and he started to ween Stiles onto lighter medication.

All in all, the improvement was a good sign and everyone was about ready to simultaneously breath a sigh of relief.

“Oh, you know,” Stiles said looking at the doctor. “The pillow in my room is still giving me a fucking neck kink. You guys still won't take my suggestion for better bedding. Might wanna get on that. Everyone would be way more comfortable. How are people suppose to sleep? Geez! Other than that, Scott's coming for visiting hours today. You know! He had a tattoo appointment last week! I can't wait to see it! It's gonna be so freakin' cool.”

Deaton smiled as Stiles prattled on about this and that. He remember back to when the boy was first brought in following his suicide attempt. Stiles couldn't even look him in the eye let alone form a full sentence. Now, the kid wouldn't stop talking. Their hour long sessions often ran over because Stiles was talking too much to notice, and if it made him happy Deaton wouldn't stop him. It was good to see.

“He's getting good grades too. You'd be proud, doc.”

“I am proud of him,” Deaton confirmed. “But let's talk about you, Stiles. Have you thought about school recently?”

“I have. I've given it some serious thought,” Stile explained. His voice was a little nervous but not so tense.

“And you're ready to try again?”

“I am. Even if I fail, I want to try again.”

“That's what I like to hear.” Deaton took as sip of his tea. “And college, have you given it much thought?”

“I was leaning towards web design or multimedia. Something cool. But uh-yeah, I haven't decided on it one hundred percent.” Stiles perked up as he visioned some kind of cool advertising career. He wasn't completely set on any one thing yet, but he had some ideas. After all, he was young. There was no need to decide his whole life right this second. No pressure.

The topics changed as their hour progressed, touching on everything Stiles had trouble with. Deaton set his empty mug down on the coffee table. “How do you feel when you think of your... episode?” He asked, gesturing a little to Stiles' arm. They dubbed his suicide attempt as an 'episode' a while back, just to avoid verbalizing a stress point for Stiles or triggering further anxieties. Every time it was brought up the teen went into a withdrawn state, curling in on himself, a guilty expression crossing his face. Today was similar but not as extreme as it had been.

Stiles paused and looked at his arm. He licked and smacked his lip. “I wasn't thinking about it today,” was his answer. “But, uhm... It's something.”

“Something? Would you like to explain what that means?”

“It was something I did. Might not be proud of it, but... it happened.” There was no point in denying it, no matter how much Stiles hated to see the thick white scare on his arm without a bandage to hide it. It happened and he couldn't change that. What has changed was that he now knew it was a mistake, one he wasn't eager to repeat.

That point of his life felt out of control, like everything was rocketing forward and he was being dragged along by the hair. It had been an easy way to make the stress and pain go away, a way to end the constant pressure and isolation. Stiles had felt trapped.

Stiles set his mug aside. The tea that was left in the bottom of the mug had gone cold from being forgotten about for so long. He thought about Deaton's question but didn't know how to answer. There weren't appropriate words in his vocabulary. With a long breath he tried to explain in ways Deaton could follow. It involved a lot of hand gestures and some movie references, but he felt it all got across.

.

.

.

Stiles came to the conclusion that winter was a pretty crappy season. It was cold. Everything felt damp. There was a significant number of cloudy days. Sure, things could be worse. If they lives any further up north there would be frost and snow. And while building a snowman would probably make his inner child very happy, the freezing temperatures did not. He was already bundled up in a thick sweatshirt and a coat.

He looked down at his feet and examined his converse. They felt weird to wear after going barefoot for months. The fabric was well worn and tearing in some places around the sole. There were grass stains and dirt permanently tinting the left toe. He stubbed his toe into the dirt below his foot, enjoying the feeling of the earth give and pack down. Stiles chuckled for no reason and took a long breath of fresh air, held it, then let it out again.

A smile peeked on his lip. Despite the chill in the air, Stiles made it a priority to get out today. It was almost hard to believe the a week ago, he'd been in the hospital. When the time came, and they told him that he'd be leaving soon, he couldn't quite believe it either. Those last few days following his evaluation, he was so pumped full of energy that he was climbing the walls.

His dad and Scott both came to get him the morning he was released. There were hugs, there were manly tears, and the promise of home. Stiles finally got to introduce Scott to the Stilinski breakfast of champions, buttermilk pancakes and crispy bacon. After months of hospital food, the smell of frying bacon had been so intoxicating Stiles thought he might have an orgasm.

He didn't stopped smiling. It was the best day he could ever ask for.

Sure, now he had his moments. There were times he felt sad or lacked the energy and motivation to do much. But he told himself that everyone had to go through that. Some times his chest felt tight and his anxieties made him shake and want to cry, but Stiles would breath and power onward all the same. Fresh air helped a lot. So did the weekly therapy sessions he was going to.

Stiles stretched out his neck and continued on his way. He'd take some time to go for a walk and ended up along the dirt hiking trail that lined the outside of the nature preserve. There were dense lines of trees on either side of the dirt pathway. A bench was plunked down every so often for people to sit on. It was actually really nice, even with the cold breeze going by that made Stiles wish he'd brought a scarf. He'd remember one next time.

He pushed on, lost in thought.

The vacant pathway was quickly filled with the found of stamping feet. One was significantly louder than the others. Stiles turned to peek his head over his shoulder. There was a jogger and his dog coming along the path behind him. At least he figured it was a dog after a second of looking at the animal bounding along the dirt. It's large size and thick black fur made it look like a some kind of wolf.

Stiles turned fully to look at the dog running along beside its owner. He walked backwards for a few steps, totally falling in love with the cute fluffy face and hanging tongue. Its ears flopped around, tail wagging.

The jogger's head was tilted down, hood pulled up. Just in case he couldn't see, Stiles moved to the side so he wouldn't get mowed over by the unmovable train of muscle coming toward him. The dog passed first, prancing and panting away happily. As the jogger came close his sneakers skidded in the dirt sending bits of gravel and twigs flying. He panted from his exercise and turned to face Stiles like he some how materialized out of thin air.

The abrupt stop was startling and Stiles backed up a bit. He stared up into the face of the jogger now that they were closer. The tanned skin was red with sweat. Parted lips took in air in large gasps. The guy ripped the hood off.

“Derek!” Stiles yelped, unable to hide the happy tone in his voice.

They stayed in casual contact since the hospital. And by that, Stiles forced Scott to hunt him down and get his number. After a lot of effort, and now that Stiles had a phone again, they had gotten into a routine of texting on and off every few days. But he never expected to run into him be complete fluke. Stiles gulped and licked his lips. “Hey, Der,” he said more casually.

Stiles back peddled, trying to put more than a foot between them. The backs of his knees hit a solid mass and bent. The dog ran out from under him, throwing him off balance. He stumbled back, almost falling on his ass. He would have to if Derek didn't reach out and grab onto his arms and pull him back up right.

“Holy crap. Thanks,” Stiles said. He chuckled from general embarrassment and his hand shot out to pat awkwardly at Derek's arm. He wasn't really paying attention to depth perception because he ended up making a weird pawing motion at Derek's broad chest.

 _Change the suggest quick!_ He yelled at himself. “You have a dog!” Stiles blurted. He looked at the large animal sitting on the ground. The fluffy tail kicking up dirt as it stamped away. Derek looked down at the dog as well like he forgot it was there, which seemed impossible because it was solid black in broad daylight and was as tall as Derek's hip while sitting.

“Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry... uh-He's not wearing his vest today, but this is my service dog.”

“Like those emotional support cats you get to take on planes?” Stiles asked.

“Something like that.” Derek looked back to Stiles. “So... you're.... here.”

“Yeah. I'm here.” He held his arms out to show off that he was in one piece. Amazingly, he was still in one piece. Stiles looked at Derek and tried to hide the breathy chuckle that slipped out by running an embarrassed hand over his face. “You too. You look...” _Gorgeous, perfect, amazing,_ “sweaty.”

Derek huffed and gave the dog beside him a light pet behind the ear. “Yeah well-”

“So what's his name?” Stiles suddenly dropped down to his knees to be eye level with the dog. He avoided the conversation by making a few childish bark noises and woofed until the dog spoke back. It made them both genuinely laugh.

“Uh, Bucky. I didn't name him. The trainer did long before I got him.”

“Like Bucky Barns?” Stiles said with an amused, goofy smirk. He looked up and saw Derek raise an eyebrow.

“Like who?”

Stiles deadpanned. He honestly felt insulted. “Bucky Barns. Winter Soldier? Dude! Captain America? I know you've been out of society awhile but do you totally live under a fucking rock?”

Derek rolled his eyes and fished the dog leash out from the pouch on his hoodie. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Welp! We're fixing that immediately,” Stiles said decidedly. He stood up and brushed imaginary dirt from his thighs. Whatever remaining awkwardness between them completely disappeared. “Movie night. Your place. I'm showing you some of the best movies you'll ever watch.”

“Why my place?” Derek asked hooking the leash on the dog's collar. He wasn't protesting, just curious.

“Because if I brought you home, my dad would have a heart attack assuming the worst.” Stiles smirked, choosing not to elaborate on that statement. He spun on his heals to lead the way along the path, gently grabbed onto the fabric of Derek's hoodie, right about the elbow. “So, your place. I'll bring the movie.”

“Yeah... sure.”

“Sweet. It's a date then.” Stiles said without thinking. Even after it came out, he didn't really care. He just smiled away and dragged Derek along the path. It wasn't like he hadn't given him fair warning about what would happen if they had met outside the hospital. Now Derek was in for a life time of Stiles' persistent flirting, and mildly annoying charm. He'd win the big guy over eventually.

Stiles let his hand slip from Derek's sleeve and brushed against his hand as they walked.

And maybe neither said a word over how their fingers hooked together in a loose hold. Stiles just bit his lip and beamed away, letting life happen without a complaint in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this has been fun. It's a little open ended there but that's how I likes'em. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this little AU story. Thanks for all the reads and kudos. It was super touching.


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